


Nature Boy

by belial



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bondage, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Dom/sub, Falling In Love, Gentle Sex, Gentleness, Healing Sex, Honesty, Humiliation, Jim's Got A Filthy Mouth Like Whoa, Kindness, Love, M/M, Master/Slave, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Redemption, Rimming, Romance, Sex God Jim Gordon, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belial/pseuds/belial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At fifteen, Oswald Cobblepot seeks out a local crime boss for protection. Tortured for her sadistic pleasure and humiliated for her entertainment, he resigns himself to living without hope, willing to survive the abuse to keep his mother safe.  Then he meets an honest cop with his own darker desires to face, and Oswald realizes salvation may come in the shape of a Gotham detective’s badge.</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own the fandom, characters, etc. I make no profit from this.  Title from the song by Nat King Cole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: There Was a Boy

**Author's Note:**

> CHAPTER Warnings: Non-con between Fish and Oswald (no actual sex, but using sexual violence as power games).
> 
> Notes: Changing POV between Jim Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot. I do not remotely try to follow canon with this – no Barbara, et cetera. I also made Oswald several years younger – you’ll see why.

He knows what she sees when she looks at him; scrawny, pale, an unruly-haired waif without money, with nothing to offer her. She examines him without kindness, poking a dagger-sharp nail into his side to watch him flinch away. “Do you know what you’re asking, child?” she says, blood-red lips knifing upward in a parody of a smile. “Are you even old enough to understand?”

“I’m eighteen, Miss Mooney,” he says, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I promise…”

He never sees the slap until it’s too late, until he’s on his knees holding his nose to stop the bleeding. He yelps, a pitiful sound, and she says, “Now you wouldn’t lie to your protector, would you? Do you honestly expect me to believe you’re an adult?”

He cringes, cowers; she’s taller than he is even when he’s not on his knees, and when she cups his chin, he begs, “Please, Miss Mooney, I’m… I’m sorry! I didn’t think you’d be willing to listen to me if you knew I wasn’t yet of age!”

“How old are you?”

He looks up at her when he says, “I’ll be sixteen in October, Miss Mooney. But please – I promise I’ll work hard. Please, Miss Mooney. My mom and I won’t make it any other way!”

She doesn’t let go of his chin and his bravery fails him. He glances away but doesn’t move from his position at her feet. She touches his face, says, “Open your mouth,” and he obeys, desperately wanting to keep in her good graces.

He never expects her to shove the handle of her metal bat into his mouth, choking him. He jerks back but her hand digs into his scalp, holding him firm. “Now child, why would you fight me? Show me appreciation for keeping you and your mommy safe.”

A voice behind him laughs; a violent, massive sound like the bodyguard himself. Oswald shudders but licks at the weapon like a metallic ice cream cone, lapping at its handle and tasting the sweat of the mobster’s palm, tasting her perfume. He gags when he’s forced to fellate the weapon, but he doesn’t complain, allows himself to be degraded at her whims.

When the bat is gone, he stays on his knees. He can’t stop his body from trembling, won’t look at her when she asks, “What could a boy like you possibly offer me, hmm? To earn my protection?”

“I… I would learn whatever you wanted me to learn, or I… I could wash dishes, serve drinks, work in the club. I can do it, Miss Mooney, I know I can.”

She pets him; a slow stroke of her hand over his head. “What if that’s not what I need? What if I want something different from you? Would I have your word, Oswald Cobblepot? That you would do as I say, behave for me, earn your mother’s safety in any manner I see fit?”

Oswald nods frantically. “Yes, I – anything, Miss Mooney, I would do anything to keep her safe.”

“Then stand up,” she tells him. “And take off your clothes.”

Oswald freezes, blinks owlishly. “I… sorry? What?”

Mooney smiles at him, again that shark-smile that makes him shiver. “Are you disobeying me already, child?”

She wants… Oswald stands, toes out of his sneakers, unbuttons the fly of his ragged jeans with shaking fingers. He tugs his tee over his head until he stands before her, naked, his balls trying to crawl up into his body as she laughs at him. “Oh, child,” she says, prodding at his genitals with the bat. “It’s a good thing I’m taking you in for everybody’s sake. You’d never satisfy anyone with that pathetic little penis of yours.”

He blushes red from the tips of his ears to the tops of his feet. He’d always thought he’d be a grower, and puberty hadn’t been as kind to him as he’d hoped, but he’d never… no one had ever seen him without clothes, and Miss Mooney…

She drives the bat into his groin like a battering ram and he screams, doubles over, collapses at her feet. Oswald almost vomits at how much it hurts, agony radiating from his testicles outwards to his stomach and thighs. “You’re a soft thing, child,” Miss Mooney says, prodding at his bare skin, making him curl up into a smaller ball of misery. “You won’t have to worry about ever using that tiny prick of yours because I’ll cage it for you. Doesn’t that sound nice? You should thank Mother for taking care of you so well.”

Oswald heaves, clamps a hand over his mouth so he won’t throw up on her shoes. When he offers no other response, she says to her bodyguard, “Gilzean, find me my crop. It seems that the first thing my new whipping boy needs to learn is basic manners.”

“With pleasure, Fish,” Gilzean says.

Oswald whimpers, pulls himself together enough to say, “Miss Mooney, I… please, miss, what do you mean, a whipping boy?”

She bends down to meet his gaze, and through the veil of his tears he sees her quirk her lips. “Yes, Oswald, my whipping boy. I get to do what I want with your body, and in return I let your mother move into my club and take care of her. Every kindness I give her will cost you pain. That’s my price. Do you accept?”

Oswald cowers, naked and terrified and desperate and she knows it, takes advantage of it. “I’m not… I’ve never…”

“Are you a virgin?”

“Yes, Miss Mooney,” he says, flushing again. The heat in his cheeks makes her chuckle. “I’m afraid,” he confesses.

“I know,” she says, a trails her fingers across his collarbones. “And that’s what makes you perfectly suited to this, for me.”

She will most likely kill him, he realizes. She continues touching his skin, pinches a nipple until he has to bite his lip to keep from screaming again. She cups his soft cock in her hands, and he lets her touch him however she pleases because he will do anything – _anything_ to keep his mother safe.

“Spread your legs for me,” she coos, and spits on her fingers. “Let me see that tight little hole of yours. Maybe my bat would look better there, hmm?”

He knows he’s lost the minute he follows her order, and maybe it’s better this way: a short, pain-filled life versus long-term suffering on the streets of Gotham.


	2. One: A Very Strange Enchanted Boy

_Seven Years Later_

Jim hears the commotion before he sees it; loud voices and the sound of metal-meeting-flesh in the darkness of the alley in front of him. He draws his sidearm and creeps forward, eyes adjusting to the gloom in time to watch a metal bat crash downward against the body on the ground. “Police!” he shouts, striding forward. “Drop the weapon!”

The bat goes clanging to the asphalt and the three goons scatter; Jim debates going after them until a noise of pain stops him in his tracks. “Harvey!” he shouts, and kneels in the grimy alley to help the victim roll onto his back. “Harvey!”

“Christ, Jim,” Harvey says. “I turn my head for one minute and you disappear on me.”

“Call an ambulance,” Jim says, only for the man on the ground to grab at his arm and squeak, “No!”

He and Harvey both look at the man, and Jim sucks in a sharp breath. Even bloodied, the wide blue eyes that stare up at him captivate him, make him notice every detail of the slender face, fey-spiky hair, a pouty little mouth. “Please,” the man – no, Jim realizes, a boy – says. “Can’t go to the hospital.”

“You’re bleeding all over the street,” Jim protests, but the boy shakes his head. 

“I’ve got to get home to Mother before she gets angry with me,” he says. Pleads, “Please, I’m fine, I…”

“Penguin?”

The boy flinches back from Harvey as if only noticing him for the first time. “Detective Bullock!” he squeaks. “Oh God, please – don’t tell Mother, please, don’t tell her! I promise to go straight back, please, detective, oh please, don’t!”

Harvey hauls the boy to his feet despite Jim’s protests. “Harvey, he could be badly wounded!”

“That’s Fish’s problem,” Harvey replies. “Come on. We’ve got a lost stray to return.”

“No!” the boy yells, struggling in Harvey’s grip. “I’ll go right now, please! Please!”

Harvey ignores the begging, half-carries, half-drags the boy (Penguin?) to their car. Jim follows, listening to the choked off pleas taper, and then finally cease as Harvey pushes the boy into the back of the car. “That’s Penguin,” Harvey says, turning over the ignition. “He’s Fish Mooney’s boy.”

Jim takes a second look at their guest; dark trousers, dress shirt, expensive vest. “Mob?”

“She is. He’s her bitch boy.”

“Jesus, Harvey, he can hear you,” Jim says, and Harvey shrugs. 

“It’s true, though. Ask him yourself. Penguin lives only for Fish’s command. Isn’t that right, kid?”

“Yes, detective,” comes a soft reply from the backseat. Jim watches the boy’s body slump against the vinyl upholstery, one hand gently prodding his ribs. 

“You break anything?” Jim asks.

The boy’s eyes widen. “No, Sir,” he replies, and ducks his head. 

“What the hell were you doing out of Fish’s place?” Harvey asks, as he steers the car towards Mooney’s Club. “That’s not like her, to let you so far out of her sight.”

“I, I wanted to look into something for her. I thought I overheard something and… and wanted to investigate,” the boy stammers. Jim watches him fidget. “I just wanted to make her proud of me.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen any time soon, kid,” Harvey says. He doesn’t say anything else until they arrive in front of a seedy club. “Get out, Penguin.”

“Yes, detective,” the boy replies. 

Harvey and Jim both get out of the car, and Harvey takes one of Penguin’s arms to steer him to the club. “Don’t want you sneaking in the back,” Harvey says, when the boy fights him. “Do you really think I’m not going to bring you to her directly?”

They pass two enormous goons on the way in, both looking darkly amused at the squirming package in Harvey’s grasp. “Whaddya got there, Bull?” one asks.

“Lost pet,” Harvey replies.

Jim’s horrified at the way they treat the boy known as Penguin, but it’s nothing compared to the way he feels when Harvey shoves the boy to his knees as a hard-faced woman approaches them. “Detective Bullock. To what do I owe your presence in my fine establishment?”

“Returning something you lost,” Harvey replies.

Jim watches her face go from mistrustful to furious. “Penguin?”

“Please, Mother,” the boy begs, and presses his face to her shoes. “Please, I didn’t mean to…”

“You always say that,” she says. “You left the club?”

“Some of Sal Maroni’s boys were using him as a punching bag in a back alley,” Harvey says. “Thought we’d bring him back to his rightful owner.”

“No!” the boy cries. He leans back on his heels to look at her. “It wasn’t like that, I was looking for information! Mother, please, I didn’t say anything, I swear it!”

She backhands him and he crashes sideways, heaves a sob, pleading, “Mother I’d never betray you!”

“Quiet!” she snarls. To Jim and Harvey, she says, “Thank you for returning this to me. I’ll take care of it from here.”

Jim watches the boy pull himself more tightly into a ball, shuddering, and it’s the last image he takes with him as he trails Harvey back to the street. They stand outside for a minute or two while Harvey lights a cigarette, takes a few whiffs. “You’ll get used to it,” Harvey tells him. “The only good thing about the mob, they keep their own in line.”

“Thought you said he wasn’t mob.”

Harvey shrugs. “Close enough. She still owns him, whether he’s dirty or not.”

Jim listens to that response, takes it in. They’re almost in the car when he stops, looks back at the club, and heads back to the doors.

“Jim, are you fucking crazy!” Harvey yells, but Jim ignores it, slips back inside.

He slowly makes his way to the main hall where he’d left Fish Mooney and the boy on the floor. When he returns, he’s not sure whether or not he’s glad he changed his mind.

The boy has been stripped down to his skin, the only things on him a thick black choke collar and a metallic cage around his cock. He’s balancing on the balls of his feet in a crouch, knees spread wide, and Mooney’s bringing a birch cane down on his thighs. “You. Stupid. Worthless. Whore!”

Jim doesn’t know what comes over him until he’s already yelling, “Jesus Christ, stop!”’

The cane snaps down one last time, deeper than the rest, and a bloody welt springs up on the boy’s tender skin. Though he’d been silent, this strike causes him to moan in pain. Jim winces, says, “What the hell are you doing to him? He just took a beating from three guys in an alley!”

“Hello again, detective,” Mooney says, and this time there’s nothing nice in the greeting. “Why are you back in my club?”

“It didn’t feel right, leaving him here,” Jim replies. He restrains himself from reaching for his sidearm since he’s vastly outnumbered. “He could’ve been bleeding internally.”

“My penguin’s much tougher than that, as you can see.”

Jim can’t help the way his eyes drift over the boy, his bowed head, his innate sense of grace and balance despite the violent act being committed upon him. “What the hell are you doing to him?”

“Whipping his worthless thighs and cock,” she replies, bored, as though she’s discussing the weather. “If you’d been a moment or two later, you’d have seen him spread over the bar so I could whip his hole. Now, may I please return to handling my property? Or was there something else you needed?”

“He’s a person, not an inanimate object,” Jim protests. 

“And yet, he still belongs to me, for me to handle however I choose,” she replies. “Isn’t that right?”

The boy raises his head, blinks watery blue eyes at Jim. “Yes, Mother.”

“There you are, detective! From his own lips. My penguin is mine, here of his own free will, taking the punishment he deserves for leaving my club. Now, will you show yourself out, or should one of my bodyguards do it for you?”

Every fiber of Jim’s body is screaming at him to step in and stop the scene in front of him. And then he thinks of a way to halt the beating. “Neither. I’m taking him with me.”

“Oh really,” she says, laughing. “What for, detective?”

“I’m placing him under arrest. Loitering, Criminal nuisance in the first degree, aggravated battery, and anything else I can think of between here and the car.”

Mooney pauses, gives him a second, more apprising look. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

She stalks toward him and he holds his ground, feeling the muscles in his back go tense as he prepares for anything from a shoot out to a brawl. “I won’t back down. You don’t have the right to treat him like an animal.”

“You think you could do better with him?” Mooney asks, and laughs. “That caged cock appeal to you, detective? Those scrawny thighs, that sad, limp little body make you hard?”

Jim glances over at the boy, notices the full-body blush. “I’m stepping in to protect him. It’s my job, since no one deserves this kind of treatment.”

“But you see, detective, my little penguin likes his punishments. That little cock you see would be so, so hard if it weren’t chained up. I had to buy a cage for him because he kept coming every time I’d beat his pretty little ass. It was embarrassing.”

“You can make a slave come through more than pain,” Jim snaps, and then wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. But the words are already out, so he says, “It’s all through training. The fault doesn’t lie with the slave.”

“So, what? It’s my fault he’s weak, and you want to save him?” Mooney exclaims. “Is that what this is? Oh, detective! That’s naïve of you. My boy isn’t for sale, and can’t be saved. He doesn’t even like to fuck a sweet pussy when it’s offered to him.”

Jim’s not sure if she meant her own, or if she’d offered the boy to someone else. Either way, the comment causes his teeth to clench. “Then maybe it’s the offer that doesn’t appeal.”

She looks ready to slap him. After a moment, she glances between Jim and the boy on the floor. “This is really bothering you. Seeing someone you can’t save in front of you.”

“We all have our vices,” Jim says. “Hero complex, maybe. Better than humiliating sadist.”

“Is it?” she asks, sweetly. She smiles, a very different expression than the one she bore a moment ago. “I’ll make you a deal, detective. You give me one excellent reason why I should let him go and I’ll give him to you.”

“Other than the fact he doesn’t truly interest you anymore?” Jim asks, offering her a tight smile of his own. “Any good dom can tell when the excitement’s gone, Mooney. And you’re only going through the motions with him. Letting him out from under your supervision, then punishing him for trying to get your attention back. It’s sad, really.”

Mooney stops, glares at him, and then lets out a breath of air. “Well. That’s an excellent reason, I’d say. You win, detective. He’s yours.” 

A wheezing, pained sob escapes the boy on the floor, and all eyes turn to him. “Mother?”

“Our bargain came to an end already, child, when mommy died last year. The only skin you’ve been looking to save is your own, and frankly? You’re getting a little long in the tooth for me anyway,” Mooney says, circling the boy. “Maybe this is a good thing for both of us. I get a fresh pet to train, and you… well. You get the good detective instead of me. Let’s see if he can spoil you the way I do, hmm?”

Jim watches the boy shake his head, a panicked expression on his face. “Please, don’t make me leave.”

Mooney snaps her fingers at the bodyguards. “Take him upstairs, help him pack his belongings, and escort him to Detective… what was your name again?”

“Gordon. Jim Gordon.”

“Detective Gordon’s car. Harvey, did you enjoy the show?”

Jim’s head whips around and yes, there stands Harvey in the doorframe, watching the proceedings. “Oh, I’ve got to hand it to Jim, here. I guess I don’t know my partner as well as I thought I did.”

“Well, I certainly won’t doubt him in the future,” Mooney says, as Jim grinds his teeth. “I think our Detective Gordon’s more than just his pretty face.”

The conversation halts at the boy’s return; he’s dressed in the same ratty pants and vest that he’d been wearing in the alley. “Oh,” Mooney says. She takes a key ring out of her pocket, removes one of the keys, and walks toward Penguin. “Unzip for Mother.”

The boy lowers his trousers and she unlocks the cage, stripping it off of him with ruthless efficiency. “There you are. I’m sure Detective Gordon has his own toys to show you.”

“Yes, Mother,” the boy replies. He shifts from foot-to-foot, clutching a suitcase to his body, head down and trembling. “Thank… thank you, Mother. For saving mommy and me.”

Mooney kisses his forehead. “That’s a good penguin,” she says. “Mother finally gets to see the manners she beat into you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Come on, we’re leaving,” Jim says, unwilling to watch the bizarre tableau in front of him any longer. “Grab your bags and let’s go.”

The boy glances up at him, says, “Yes Sir”, and Jim forces himself to keep his face impassive. By the time the unlikely trio makes it to Harvey’s car, Jim is exhausted; the boy looks pained and terrified; and Harvey, the bastard, is laughing. “Only you could walk into a mob boss’ club and come out owning one of her once-prized possessions.”

“He’s a person, not a possession.”

“Whatever you say, partner. You want me to drop the two of you off at your apartment?”

Jim groans. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The boy exits the car as quietly as he entered it and limps up the stairs to Jim’s apartment. Jim unlocks the door and pushes the boy inside. “You can stay here until you get your feet back under you,” Jim says. “Sleep on the couch.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ll help you with some money and then you can leave Gotham, make a life for yourself someplace else.”

“Sir?”

Jim looks at him then, sees the terror painted across the boy’s face. “I’m not looking for a submissive,” Jim says. “Don’t want to own you. But I couldn’t leave you there.”

“She’ll kill you! Or have you killed… Sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” Jim snaps. “Call me Jim, if you have to say something at all.”

“Yes, Jim,” the boy says. He looks tempted to say more but doesn’t.

“Spit it out.”

His head snaps up; he regards Jim suspiciously. “You wish for me to speak, Sir? Jim?”

“Don’t ever lie to me,” Jim says. “You won’t like the results. And if you’ve got something on your mind, you’d better damn well say it. I’m not a mind reader.”

“I don’t want you to die because you thought you were saving me!”

“It’s not an issue. As I said, you can stay here until you find a job and a place of your own, and then you’re free to go.”

“But I have to leave Gotham?”

“Do you really want to stay here? Do you have any family here?”

The boy’s face falls, and Jim thinks about how tired he is of saying ‘the boy’. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Objects don’t have names,” comes the pitiful reply.

“You give me another one of those kinds of answers and we’re going to have trouble. Didn’t you hear what I just said? Don’t lie to me. Now what’s your name?”

“Oswald,” the boy – _Oswald_ – says. “Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.”

“Nice to meet you, Oswald.”

“You too, Sir. Jim. Damn it.”

The curse startles a laugh out of Jim. And then Oswald grimaces, and Jim asks, “Did you want some help cleaning up from that birching, or can you do it on your own?”

“I can manage, Jim.”

“Okay, then. Bathroom’s third door on the right, down the hall. First aid kit’s under the sink. Go clean up and then we’ll lay some ground rules until you leave.”

“Yes, Jim.”

Jim watches his new roommate limp down the hall, and wonders how exactly he ended up in this mess.


	3. Two: They Say He Wandered Very Far

The apartment’s larger than the room Fish had given him; even sleeping on the couch would be a vast improvement to being locked in a closet every night. The detective’s apartment is tidy if not clean; the first aid kit well-stocked. Oswald wonders how many times Jim has brought home strays before. He wonders if Jim will use him, the way Fish had. 

He hopes not.

Fish had done a great job breaking down Oswald’s barriers; opening up the pleasure of pain for him. But at 22, still a virgin in all the ways it matters, he hopes Jim would willingly avail himself of Oswald’s body in ways that didn’t include torture. 

Even though Jim could beat his cock as much as he wanted.

Oswald strips, turns on the hot water, and slides into the shower. Jim had ordered him to clean up; even though he didn’t have much in the way of clean clothes, getting the scum off would improve his appearance. Oswald glances at his cock, free from its cage, and touches it, tugs at it. Nothing. He shrugs; his tiny cock’s not good for anything anyway. He has holes that will make Jim happy.

Once clean, he digs out the first aid kit, alcohol, antiseptic creams, and bandages. He patches up the open wounds on his palms from where he fell; rubs soothing cream into the welts on his thighs; bandages a cut on his knee that he’d not seen before. When he’s done, he tugs on his shirt and walks back into the living room to meet with his new master. “Jim?”

Jim has a blanket draped over the couch, with a pillow and sheet propped in one corner. He offers his new owner a small smile. “For me?”

“Yeah. Want you to be as comfortable as possible while you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

It’s late afternoon, or early evening, by now; Oswald isn’t sure. “May I please ask what time it is?”

“Almost six thirty. I told you, anything on your mind, you say it.”

“Thank you. Then yes, I’d like something to eat, please.”

Fish had ordered him to be fed him when she’d wanted him fed, starved him when she’d wanted him hungry. Jim does neither; he opens a can and microwaves the contents in a bowl, setting it down on the meager kitchen table. “Here. Eat.”

Some sort of canned pasta blob stares up at Oswald, but he gingerly sits in the chair and eats. He’s half-starved, his thighs are on fire, and he’s exhausted. “Thank you, Jim.”

Jim nods. When Oswald finishes, Jim takes his plate. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’ve got to go back to the station for a while, I’ll grab something there. There’s a phone on the wall in the living room. I’ll call you every hour to make sure you don’t have a concussion. And for now, since you’re under my care, I’m going to set a few rules for you. You answer the phone when I call. You don’t answer the door for anyone or try to leave the apartment. If you’re hungry or thirsty, get something in the fridge. If you have to take a piss, do it. I’m not your Master or Sir, but you’re not to be rude, though I want you to be honest. Do we understand each other?”

“If you’re not my Master, then why are you giving me rules?” Oswald asks, confused.

“Because you’re my guest, and a recently traumatized guest at that, and while you were in the shower I realized I couldn’t in good conscience abandon you. Guests get rules, too. Okay?”

“Thank you for explaining, Jim.”

“You’re welcome,” Jim says, and gently pats him on the back. 

Oswald watches the detective slip out the front door and looks at the empty, quiet room around him. Then, determined to be a good guest, he roots through Jim’s refrigerator, which is filled with day-old takeout boxes and mold. “Gross.”

A bit more searching lands him a jug of bleach. He makes a sink of hot water, grabs the sponge, and adds several drops of bleach to the mixture. Oddly energized, he attacks the filth in the fridge, then cleans the counters and the sink. And then the stove. By the time the phone rings, he’s worked up a layer of sweat and rearranged Jim’s cabinets. 

“Hello?”

“Why do you sound out of breath?”

Oswald smiles. “I was cleaning your kitchen, Jim. Your refrigerator was a thing inspiring nightmares.”

Jim sputters, says, “I told you to sleep!”

Oswald tenses. “It wasn’t an order though?” he asks more than says. “Sir, I can’t sleep right now. I want to please you, but I’m so anxious. I’m not tired.”

He can hear Jim’s sigh through the phone. “All right. Don’t overdo it, you’re legs must be killing you by now.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says. He can’t help it. Jim’s voice holds such authority that it immediately sinks him down into himself.

“What did I tell you about that?”

“What? Oh. I’m sorry, Jim. I’m not trying to misbehave, but you embody everything ‘Sir’ should stand for.”

“Then remember your manners,” Jim says, and Oswald closes his eyes. “And don’t use titles for me when I give you orders not to.”

“No, Jim,” Oswald says. “I promise. May I return to cleaning the kitchen now?”

“I’d like you to sleep,” Jim grumbles. “Finish what you’re doing and lay down.”

“I promise.”

Jim makes a displeased noise but hangs up; Oswald listens to the dial tone a few moments until he replaces the phone in its cradle. He returns to the kitchen, finishes cleaning the cabinet in front of him, washes his hands, and snuggles in the nest of blankets Jim left him on the couch. 

He’s still not as exhausted as he wishes he was. He pushes his pants over his hips and takes off his shirt, unable to sleep in clothes, and resettles on the couch. Naked, the blankets feel better against his skin, not as scratchy against the newly-raised welts on his thighs. He thinks about searching the freezer for an ice pack – he’s pretty sure he saw one – but he doesn’t want to drip all over Jim’s couch.

Being a guest is awkward when one is beaten and bloody.

He can’t get comfortable in any position, so he once again reaches for his cock; he pets it, strokes it, imagines what it would feel like if Jim’s thick fingers were in his hole, stretching him open for fucking…

Nothing. Oswald wishes Mother hadn’t trained erections out of him. He thinks about what Jim said, about becoming his own man somewhere out of Gotham. It’s a confusing and terrifying prospect, but he has nothing tying him to the city any longer.

What would he do if he had the opportunity to do anything he wanted?

When the phone rings again it startles him, and he answers without checking the caller ID. “Jim?”

A pause. “Who is this?” a woman asks.

Oswald jerks upright, mouth falling open. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Oswald and I’m a friend of Jim’s. He’s currently at his employer’s, may I leave a message for him?”

“Tell him to return Thelma’s call?” the woman asks. “I’m his brother Roger’s wife.”

“Yes ma’am,” Oswald says, unfailingly polite. He looks at the clock, notices it’s close to nine thirty. “May I pass along any other message or assist you further?”

Thelma pauses again. “No, thank you, Oswald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re a polite young man, aren’t you?” Thelma says, and Oswald’s unsure if she’s talking to him or talking to herself. He hesitates before responding, and is glad to have done so when she adds, “How long have you been Jim’s?”

He blanks out. _Jim’s had past submissives,_ his brain shouts at him. _Jim’s sister-in-law has met his past submissives_. “I don’t belong to him, ma’am,” Oswald replies, brain catching up to realize she expects an answer from him. “He was kind enough to help me out of an extraordinary situation, but he doesn’t… he’s not…”

She shushes him and Oswald stops talking. “All right, darling,” she says. “It’s all right. No need to worry. Just tell Jim to call me and we’ll say good night. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oswald says. “Good night, ma’am.”

“Good night, Oswald.”

Oswald hangs up the phone and cringes. He has no idea how to get hold of Jim, so he stares at the phone until it rings again. This time, he’s sure it’s Jim before he picks up. “Hello, Jim.”

“How do you feel?”

“Not tired, but I tried to rest. I… I may have made a mistake? I answered the phone earlier, thinking it was you, but it was your sister-in-law.”

“Thelma? Damn it,” Jim swears. “Did she want to know who you were?”

“I offered her my first name only and said I was a guest. She… she inferred that I might be yours? I told her I wasn’t, but I’m not sure she believed me.”

Jim swears again and Oswald flinches. “I’m so sorry, Jim. I wasn’t trying to make your life more difficult.”

“I know,” Jim growls. “But you have anyway. Did she at least say what she wanted?”

“No, Jim. She only asked that you return her call.”

“Shit.”

Oswald doesn’t know what to say to this man he just met. He asks, “Is there anything I can do to make this better?” and gets a long exhale as reply. “Jim?”

“Go to bed, Oswald. I’ll call Thelma and be home soon.”

“Yes, Jim.”

Oswald hangs up, glances around the room. Other than the mess of blankets on the couch, there’s nothing else for him to clean; nothing for him to fix, no way for him to show his sorrow.

He gets up, goes back into the kitchen and gets a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. He drinks it, sipping slowly, unconcerned with his nudity in the cool chill of the appliance door. He’s listless, worried that no matter what he does, he’s going to anger the detective. He looks upwards, and asks for help from the one person who never hurt him or turned him away. “Matka, are you there? I could use your guidance. Miss Mooney gave me to a policeman, you see, and I don’t think he wants much to do with me. And even by trying to stay out of trouble, all I do is cause more? He wants me to go, mom, leave Gotham, but how can I do that when your grave is here?”

Oswald stops, bows his head. The tears from earlier threaten to overwhelm him again. “I don’t belong anywhere. And I’m scared because I’m alone, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this. I don’t think I know how to be anything anymore other than Miss Mooney’s penguin. I don’t even have a driver’s license, how am I supposed to have a whole life?”

Oswald returns to the couch, curls up with the blankets and allows himself to wallow until the tumblers in the door locks turn over. He panics as Jim walks into the room, struggles to sit up despite the late hour, but doesn’t undo the burrito-style blanket around him. Jim spares him a tired glance and disappears around a corner. When he returns, the suit and tie are gone, replaced by soft-looking sweats and a tee shirt.

Oswald’s mouth waters. 

“Are you comfortable out here?” Jim asks, interrupting Oswald’s lurid thoughts. “You didn’t overdo anything?”

“No, Jim. Though if you wish to take a beer from the refrigerator, you’ll no longer have to fight the mold for it.”

Jim gives him an honest-to-God’s grin. “It wasn’t that bad!” he exclaims, to which Oswald sniffs at him. “I think you’re embellishing the facts.”

“Maybe, but if so, then not by much,” Oswald replies. He gives Jim a shy look through his eyelashes. “I thought it might please you, for me to clean it up.”

“I have a feeling you’d please me just fine by breathing,” Jim mutters. Oswald’s not sure he was supposed to hear that, so he doesn’t respond.

The detective takes a seat in an armchair across from Oswald and arches an eyebrow. “What did you find for pajamas, exactly?”

“Nothing.”

Jim groans. “Please tell me you’re not naked on my sofa.”

“I’m not naked on your sofa,” Oswald parrots back. 

“Really?”

“You told me to tell you that I wasn’t naked. You didn’t say it had to be truthful. I was only following orders, Jim.”

Oswald stills as Jim reaches out to grab his chin. Caught in the detective’s firm gaze, his breath hitches. They stare at each other until Jim says, “I’m glad to see she didn’t break your spirit for good.”

“She didn’t want to break me,” Oswald says, caught up in Jim’s heavy gaze. “She may have trained my body to respond to certain stimuli in certain ways, but she never broke my mind. That’s why I was out questioning Maroni’s men. I wanted to please her.”

“Sometimes you can only please other people by learning to please yourself. You need to become your own man, Oswald. Not live at the hands of someone else.”

“Is that why you want me to leave Gotham? Why you don’t want to keep me?”

“How old are you?”

Oswald blinks. “Twenty-two.”

“Hold old were you when Fish Mooney dug her claws into you?”

“Fifteen.”

“And you don’t think you need to get the hell out of this town? Learn how to be your own person?”

“I never wanted to be my own person! I wanted to belong to someone who’d keep my mother and me safe.”

“But Gertrud’s dead, Oswald. There’s no one left for you to protect but yourself.”

Oswald’s breath catches. “How do you… how did you know her name?” he blurts.

“What do you think I was doing at the station tonight?” Jim asks. “GCPD has a decent file on you, thanks to your association with Fish Mooney. I needed more information about you.”

Oswald curls back into himself, pulling away from Jim’s grasp. “I’m nothing but a charity case to you, then.”

“What did you think I was doing this afternoon, huh? When I forced that bitch to stop abusing you?”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Oswald bites back, surprised at his vehemence. “Mother’s not a bad person!”

“Not a bad… Oswald. You’d just gotten your ass handed to you in an alley and instead of caring for her submissive, she had you in a slave squat so she could birch your thighs. She’s exactly the kind of woman you call a bitch!”

Oswald covers his ears with his hands. “I won’t listen to that,” he says. “Mother made sure I knew boys were seen and not heard and made my body respond to her command! Even after my own mother died, she took care of me and didn’t throw me out on the street, even if I never did anything for her other than take whatever abuse she needed to dole out! So don’t you dare call her that!”

Before Oswald knows what he’s doing, he’s standing up and swinging at Jim. He’s embarrassed at how easily Jim catches and deflects his punch, instead using the blankets to wrap more firmly around Oswald’s body. “Let go of me!” Oswald shouts. “Let go! I’ll go back to her, I’ll beg her to take me back and she will, you’ll see! I don’t care if you think I’m pathetic, I’m not! I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!!!”

Jim tightens his arms and Oswald breaks; all of the tears and nerves consume him and he collapses against Jim’s chest, sobbing harshly. Jim holds on, doesn’t mock him, doesn’t let him go, moves the two of them to the sofa so Oswald ends up half in Jim’s lap, being cradled like something precious.

When Oswald stops crying long enough to appreciate the care, he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

“Bad manners,” Oswald hiccups. “Yelling at you, trying to hit you. Take your pick.”

To his surprise, Jim chuckles. “I was wondering how much more I’d have to say to get you to finally snap, actually.”

“What?”

“Oswald. You’ve been a jittery mess since I walked through the door,” Jim explains. “I was trying to make you lose your cool when I called Mooney a bitch. You don’t think I recognize all the signs of a sub who needs to lose control? You were shaking, cleaning, sleep-deprived, and wound up in that blanket like a spring. But I bet you feel better now, don’t you?”

Oswald does, in fact, feel better. He scrubs at his face with his left hand. “So you mean I’m not just a charity case?”

“You’ve gotta be pretty strong to stay in a slave pose with a probable concussion,” Jim says. “You’re a beauty, Oswald. Anyone would be proud to have you, but you need to take that strength and use it for your own. Not for what people want you to be. Which is why I suggested you leave Gotham. Stretch your legs, see the rest of the world. Get the hell away from mob bosses and that penguin persona.”

“I hated that nickname,” Oswald admits. “She used it because I hated it so much.”

“Then it’s time to own another,” Jim says. He runs a hand up and down Oswald’s back. It’s time to take care of yourself, okay?”

“Oh,” Oswald says, leaning into Jim’s touch. “May I ask a favor, then?”

“What?”

“Would you help me get a driver’s license? If I’m going to be Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot again, it might help for me to have proof.”


	4. Three: Very Far, Over Land and Sea

Jim isn’t sure when ’home’ and ‘Oswald’ became synonymous, but it’s probably not healthy for either of them. But in the two weeks Oswald’s been living with him, cleaning his house and feeding him takeout, Jim’s not only been content, he’s been… happy. 

“Not healthy,” he says, and resolves himself yet again to get Oswald out of Gotham and managing somewhere on his own.

“What’s that, partner?”

Jim looks up from his paperwork and notices the smug expression on Harvey’s face. “What?”

“Talking to yourself,” Harvey says. “Thinking of what to bring home to the missus tonight? Flowers, wine, candles? Or do you bring home whips, chains and candles, instead?”

It takes most of Jim’s efforts not to fling coffee in Harvey’s face. “I’m not fucking Oswald,” he groans, rolling his eyes. “And I’m sure as hell not bringing him wine and flowers.”

“Especially since it seems he’ll bring them to you,” Harvey says, glancing at something over Jim’s shoulder.

Jim freezes; then, slowly, he turns around to see Oswald talking to one of the beat cops by the front door. “Harvey, create a distraction for me,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“Because I’m going to murder him. Make sure no one’s watching.”

Harvey laughs in his face. Jim gets out of his chair and uses his long legs to eat up the distance between his desk and Oswald. When he reaches the front, he can’t help but notice how good the smaller man looks: a pair of tailored black pants hug slim hips and a heather grey sweater rests over a white collared shirt. His spiky hair’s even combed down and he looks more like a college kid than a mobster’s submissive. He overhears Oswald say, “I promise, I only need a moment of his time” when he reaches the front desk.

“Oswald.”

Oswald jumps a foot off the ground and spins. When he recognizes Jim’s face, he grins. “Jim! Just who I was looking for!”

Jim’s about to chastise Oswald for about thirty different reasons – mainly, leaving the house, showing up at the precinct, risking being kidnapped off the street – until he was hit with the most perfect smell. “What is that?” he asks, pointing at the bag in Oswald’s clutches.

Oswald grins. “It’s lasagna.”

“Where did you get lasagna?”

Oswald shifts nervously. “I brought it for your lunch. I… I was hoping you might be able to go out for a little bit? Sit outside on the steps and eat, talk about… something important?”

Jim raises an eyebrow. Something tells him he’s not going to like what Oswald has to say, and five minutes later he’s sure of it. He’s not even sure he can eat the delicious-looking meal in front of him when Oswald finishes his story. “So wait, let me understand: you walked in to Maroni’s, reminded him who you were and who used to own you, and asked him for a _job_?”

“He knows I’m no trouble for anyone!” Oswald cries out, then drops his voice and glances around to ensure they aren’t being overheard. “I told him I was completely out of Mooney’s world, wouldn’t be able to do anything for him because I wasn’t part of that circle anymore. So he kind of gave me a hard time, but he allowed me to make him one meal to show I was worth the job, and I did, I made lasagna, the one you should be eating instead of glaring at, and it was good, it was really good, and he’s going to let me cook in his kitchen and pay me wages so I can support myself!”

“Here. In Gotham,” Jim says, flatly, and Oswald’s face falls. “And how do you think Fish is going to take that news, huh? You going to work for her boss’ number one enemy?”

Oswald’s mouth opens and closes. “But I don’t know anything about her business,” he says. “I can’t do anything to her because she never told me anything.”

“Do you think she won’t kill you just in case?” Jim’s close to yelling now, location be damned. “That’s why I told you that you needed to go anywhere else! Jesus Christ, are you purposely trying to die?”

“No!” Oswald gasps. “No, of course not, I don’t want to die! But how am I supposed to go somewhere else without any money? I can’t live on the streets in a different city and expect to get a job! I thought you’d be happy for me, that I could finally earn some money and be a ‘responsible adult’ like you want me to be!”

Jim covers his face with his hands. “I’m proud of you for getting a job, Oswald. I’m just furious about where you’re working. You could’ve gone anywhere.”

“Anywhere?” Oswald sniffs. “Really? Because I don’t have any education. Not even a diploma. I don’t have any recordable work history. And I don’t know any employers who consider my ability to take a man’s fist to be a job skill.”

Jim recoils as if Oswald slapped him. He looks at the miserable, forlorn expression on Oswald’s face. “I’ve got to start somewhere, right? I can cook, Jim, and I’m really good at it. It was the only thing Mother ever made sure I was capable of. And yeah, okay, everyone in that restaurant knows who I am and what I was, but they’re willing to overlook it because I’m really, really good at this.”

Jim glances down at the fork in his hand, sighs, and stabs into the lasagna. He brings it to his lips, takes in the mouthwatering aromas of garlic and cheese, and bites down.

Bliss.

It’s the only word he can think, and he lets out the most inappropriate moan. He’s overwhelmed by hints of parsley, ricotta, layers of tart-sweet tomato and oregano. “Christ on the cross,” he says, when he can finally speak again. “I completely understand why he hired you.”

“You like it?”

“I feel cheated,” he says, without thinking. “I could’ve been eating your cooking all this time and you never said a word, you just let me pay for take-out. You’ve held out on me, Oswald. I may never speak to you again.”

Oswald giggles. Not a laugh, not a grin, but sheer childlike giggles. “If I start getting a regular paycheck, maybe I can contribute to the food budget? If… if you’ll still let me stay? If you want me to keep cooking for you?”

It would be so easy for Jim to let him go. Tell him, _No, it’s time for you to get your own place,_ or _If you’re going to work for Maroni, there’s no place left for you with me._ And he means to tell Oswald it’s time for him to move on, but what he ends up saying is, “As long as you’re still comfortable on the couch.”

Oswald looks dangerously close to hugging him. Jim can’t bring himself to mind. He gathers another portion of food on his fork and then twists it to offer it to Oswald. “Here,” he says, gruffly.

Oswald takes the proffered bite, pink tongue slipping out for kitten licks to the fork. Jim forces down the groan that gathers in his chest. “It’s delicious.”

“Thank you,” Oswald says. He lowers his lashes. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not thrilled,” Jim admits. “I think you’re playing with fire and I don’t like it.”

“I promise I’ll be careful.”

Jim scoots closer to Oswald on the steps so their shoulders brush. “You’d better be. I’m pretty used to having a roommate, now.”

“So you wouldn’t want me to deprive you of my company, is that what you’re saying?”

Cheeky little shit. Jim bumps him and doesn’t give him the next bite of lasagna out of spite. There’s a tiny scuffle for possession of the fork – which Jim easily wins – and they go back to their conversation. “If you can save some money working at Maroni’s, where do you plan on going?”

“I don’t know. California? Florida? Someplace warm,” Oswald says, sighing. “I’m so tired of being cold all the time.”

“You can bring real New York food down south,” Jim says, in his worst fake drawl. This makes Oswald laugh. “Though I bet you’ll be eating barbeque pretty soon.”

“I’m not moving to Texas. Dear God.”

Jim starts to respond then stops. Swallows. Debates the sense of his next question. “Take a man’s fist?”

“Ah,” Oswald replies. “Yes. I did say that, didn’t I? I can, yes, since you’re obviously wondering.”

Jim keeps his expression neutral while trying not to picture Oswald squirming on his knuckles. “Have you ever been properly fucked?” he asks, quietly.

Oswald chokes on his bite of pasta and Jim passes over his soda can without thought. After he’s sure the younger man won’t die, he says, “I’m serious.”

“No,” Oswald replies. Lightly, he adds, “Only object insertion for me. Mother said if I wouldn’t eat pussy, then I couldn’t have cock. I haven’t had an orgasm in five years. I don’t even think I can, anymore.”

Jim gapes and can’t find his voice. He’s pretty sure if his mouth had been full, he’d have been choking, too. “Five years? But ever since I took you home, haven’t you… wouldn’t you touch yourself?”

Their heads are pressed together, the conversation whispered between them as secrets being shared. “Can’t get hard,” Oswald murmurs. “Not sure I’ll be able to again. But I think I could come on a cock, if I had the chance.”

Jim’s half-hard in his trousers, goes to full mast at that statement. Oswald glances down at Jim’s lap and grins. “Would you help me see if I can make that happen?”

“Oswald…”

“Please, Jim. I trust you not to hurt me and I want to do this anyway. You want me to grow up, find my own way? Then let me make my own choices. I want my first time to be with you. Won’t you please say yes?”

Jim nearly bites through his lower lip. “This is Stockholm Syndrome, Oswald. You don’t really want me. And I don’t want this as some sort of gratitude.”

“I’m not suffering from Stockholm Syndrome,” Oswald says, rolling his eyes. “If I were, I wouldn’t have fought with you to keep my new job. And it’s not gratitude. Well, maybe a little? But I also have eyes, Jim, and while my dick may be broken, my eyeballs work fine.”

Jim absolutely, positively, does not blush. And that’s the moment, of course, that Harvey finds them: curled together on the front steps of GCPD, sharing a fork and a meal, Oswald’s cheeks pink from laughter and Jim’s cheeks red from embarrassment. “You two are fucking disgusting to watch,” Harvey says, with an over-exaggerated eye roll. “Jim, send home the ‘not-boyfriend’ you’re ‘not-fucking’ and get your ass back inside. That paperwork’s not gonna do itself and I’m sure as shit not doing it for you.”

Jim splutters and Oswald laughs, gives Jim a soft kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you at home, I don’t start work until Friday,” he says.

“Yeah, okay. You’re making dinner tonight, right?” Jim says. If he’s going to go along with the madness, he may as well go all-in. “I’m fond of meat and potatoes!”

“Peasant!” Oswald calls back, and he strolls down the street. “See you soon!”

Jim doesn’t move until Oswald’s out of sight. “So, he cooks for you, cleans for you, warms your dick, and there’s nothing going on there, right?”

“We haven’t slept together yet.”

“Yet?” Harvey’s a detective for a reason. “Yet. But you’re going to.”

“Looks that way.”

Harvey whistles. “He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, doesn’t he. And he knows it, too.”

“Shut up, Harvey.”

Harvey laughs. “Just be careful, Jim. He may be innocent of mob-related business, but he’s no angel.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten,” Jim says, sighing. He picks up the plastic fork and takes one last bite of the lasagna, then tosses the empty container into a nearby trash can and follows Harvey back into the station.

Somehow, Jim manages to buckle down and focus on his paperwork, finalizing information from two case files Captain Essen had been pushing him to finish. At three, he and Harvey follow up on a lead, and by five he’s out the door and on his way home, ignoring the way Harvey cracks an imaginary whip at him.

Bastard.

Jim reaches his building and opens the door, moves past the elevator and takes the stairs two at a time to get to his apartment. There’s a smell in the hallway that makes his stomach growl, and it takes him a moment to realize the smell’s coming _from his apartment_. “Oswald?” he calls, when he gets his front door open. “Are you in here?”

A gasp from the kitchen and a clang; Oswald skids around the corner, eyes wide. “Oh! Normally you don’t leave the station house until almost seven, what are you doing home already?”

Jim straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest, biting down a smile in the face of the smaller man’s nervousness. “I thought I’d take off a little early today since our lunch conversation got interrupted,” he says, mock-sternly. “But what exactly are you doing in my kitchen, hmm? Should I be upset?”

“Oh, no-no-no!” Oswald squeaks. “It’s nothing bad! I just… after I left you this afternoon, I may have taken your ‘meat and potatoes’ comment to heart, and maybe, um, I maybe made you dinner?”

“I didn’t leave you money for take-out; how did you manage dinner?”

Oswald blushes so fiercely it makes Jim’s heart ache. “Well… I might have found a way? Nothing bad. Look, come into the kitchen, please, and I’ll explain while we’re there?”

Jim follows the smaller man into his kitchen, where he finds his table covered in vegetables. “Those don’t look like potatoes,” he grumbles, but allows Oswald to shoo him into a seat at the table. Oswald, meanwhile, heads towards the stove, lifting a pot lid – and who knew Jim had pots? – to stir something. 

“Well, there are potatoes, I just already peeled them and put them in the pot with the carrots and onions,” Oswald huffs. “The other vegetables go in later. I’m making my mother’s beef stew for you.”

“And where did you get all of the ingredients?”

“Oh. Well, um. Before I met Miss Mooney, I made friends with a lot of the little bodega owners along the strip,” Oswald explains. “Most are people I’ve known a long time now; so today, I went back and did some odd chores for them in trade for the produce. And tomorrow, I have to go to Olsen’s Meat and Deli and make up a few dozen pounds of my mom’s onion sausage for him to sell in exchange for the beef. But that’s kind of fun, because I haven’t made sausages for a while.”

Jim stares at him and Oswald squirms. “Was that bad? Should I not have worked in trade for dinner?”

“You gorgeous genius,” Jim says, hoarsely. He gets up from his chair. “You creative goddamn beauty. Get over here.”

Oswald hesitates, but puts one foot in front of the other until he’s standing less than a foot in front of Jim. Jim slowly reaches out to touch Oswald’s face, telegraphing the motion so Oswald has plenty of time to see what’s happening. The only reaction Oswald has is to go wide-eyed when Jim cups his cheek, tugging the younger man into his body. He tilts Oswald’s face up and puts a feather-light kiss on the tip of his nose. “You went out of your way to make me a special meal, got the ingredients through honest means, and I was suspicious of you. I’m sorry, Oswald. This is an amazing surprise and I’m so proud of you for finding such a creative, decent way of pulling it off.”

Oswald melts against him, burying his face in Jim’s chest. “You’re proud of me?”

“Yeah. Really proud,” Jim says, and because everything about Oswald entrances him, he kisses Oswald again – this time a brush of lips against his temple. The smaller man makes a noise of pleased surprise and presses closer to Jim’s body, tipping his head back to receive any other kisses Jim may wish to give him. The innocently-seductive move makes Jim chuckle, dropping kisses on Oswald’s cheek, his eyelashes, his chin. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” Oswald replies, voice soft. “I like the way you touch me,” comes an equally-soft admission. “You make me feel good. You never hurt me.”

“That’s the way I am with my…” and Jim trails off, because shit. He’s been treating Oswald like a submissive all this time, and Oswald’s too damaged to know the difference between roommates and friends and intimacy. No wonder Oswald wants Jim for his first; he’s been treating the younger man like a lover already. It hits him then, how selfish he is, to try to keep the beautiful broken boy in front of him. 

“You’re thinking about sending me away again, aren’t you.” 

“I should,” Jim replies. “You can already read me that well, huh?”

“Because you feel guilty when you treat me like I’m yours? It’s kind of obvious, Jim. When you allow yourself to want me, you look pained about it.”

“Because I shouldn’t want you,” Jim says. “I didn’t want to take you from one form of abuse to another form of ownership.”

“But I’m not stupid,” Oswald protests. “I know that you want me! I want you just as much – it’s like, out of all of the people who could’ve taken me away from Miss Mooney, the only one who did it was the one who did it without any selfish intentions! Jim, you meant to rescue me. But you like me; no games, no sex, nothing more than a few conversations over take-out boxes and television. How could I not want this with you?”

The last sentence ends on a plea, a whine; and Jim’s desire to save Oswald is overshadowed by his desire to take Oswald for himself. “If I let myself have you the way I want you, I’m never going to be able to let you go,” he admits to the younger man. “I want to wreck you for everyone else but me.”

“Then do it,” Oswald says. “I’ve got a job so I can be independent; I won’t let anyone like Miss Mooney push me around ever again. And I’ll have someone who wants me, wants to take care of me… and someone I want to take care of. Or do you think I ever randomly brought food to Miss Mooney? Hmm? No, Jim. That’s just you.”

Jim rubs his thumbs across Oswald’s cheekbones. “So you promise you’ll talk back to me? Never become a mindless drone? That’s not what I want. I like this troublemaker in front of me, the guy who’s going to think about things creatively and sneak me vegetables and probably make me enjoy them. I want him to stick around. Do you think you can do that, if I make you mine?”

“We can try. Together,” Oswald says, though he shivers in Jim’s embrace. “Please?”

And Jim might be a strong man, but not even he can face all of his darker desires and win. He wants – he _wants_ – and he’s tired of fighting with himself about it. “What can I do to help you with dinner?” he asks, brushing a kiss over Oswald’s mouth. He sucks the smaller man’s lower lip between his teeth and nibbles it. Releasing the lip, he adds, “If I help, maybe we can eat sooner, because _I’m hungry_.”

Oswald whimpers, rubs his body against Jim’s and Jim groans at the friction. He cups his hands under the smaller man’s buttocks and hoists him up, pinning his body between Jim’s and the wall. “God, that’s sexy,” Oswald murmurs, and blushes. “I mean…”

Jim grins and kisses him again, still soft and gentle. “You say what you want to say when you want to say it,” Jim reminds him. “But yeah, you’re little enough for me to manhandle, and it’s sexy as hell.”

Oswald’s face could be used as a beacon and Jim laughs again, then lets the other man’s feet touch the floor. “Come on. Dinner.”

Oswald pouts, but gestures Jim towards something leafy. “Come on, you can get the ribs out of the Swiss chard,” he says. “Tease.”

“You have no idea, sweetheart.”


	5. Four: A Little Shy and Sad of Eye

_“You have no idea, sweetheart.”_

Ever since the endearment, Oswald’s floating on air. He finishes the stew, letting it simmer, and while it simmered, Jim had taken him to the living room, put him on the couch, and held him while Oswald divulged the details of his job interview.

Oswald had never had so much trouble talking as when Jim petted him all over his face, chest, arms, legs, and hands. How could hands even be an erogenous zone?

Then Jim had eaten, making moans and groans of appreciation over the stew. That had led to more petting and snuggling in front of the television, the two of them curled up in each other.

And leaves Oswald in his current predicament: wondering what happens next.

“Are you ready for bed?”

Oswald jolts, blinks up at Jim. “Yes?”

“Good. I was thinking of how I could repay you for that amazing dinner and I think I’ve got a great idea.”

“You don’t… there’s no repayment necessary, really, I didn’t…”

“Shh,” Jim shushes him. “I know that. But this is something I want to do for you.”

“But…”

Jim’s mouth slots over Oswald’s and really, that’s not fair, Jim’s going to win every potential argument that way. “Okay,” he finds himself saying, much to Jim’s delight.

“Good. Go to the bathroom, take off your clothes, and get a shower. Make sure to wash well. Everywhere,” Jim stresses. “You understand? Then meet me in the bedroom.”

Oswald blushes again, which is ridiculous, considering what’s been done to his body already. If Jim wants him clean so he can fuck him, Oswald’s not going to complain. He gets up and heads into the bathroom, washing well, pushing soapy fingers into his hole to make sure he’s clean everywhere. When he gets out, he towels off, rubbing the towel over his head to get the water out of his hair. He walks into the bedroom, where Jim’s got all of the sheets pulled off the top of the bed, and two towels lay across the mattress. “On your belly,” Jim says, gesturing to the bed. “Eyes closed.”

Oswald hesitates. “Are you turning the lights off?”

“I want to see you,” Jim all but growls at him, voice so low and turned on that Oswald’s stomach jumps. He shivers a little, wondering how Jim will react to the mass of scars across his back and the backs of his thighs. 

He stretches face-down on the bed, folds his arms beneath his head so that he can breathe, and says, “I’m here.”

Jim doesn’t speak; he leans over Oswald’s body and presses a kiss to his right shoulder blade. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Jim, I’m a mess.”

“Gorgeous,” Jim repeats. “You lived through all of this and came out the other side stronger. You think just anybody would’ve survived this kind of torture?”

Oswald had never thought of it that way. “R…really?”

“Really,” Jim says. “You’re a beauty. You want to be mine?”

“Yes,” Oswald sighs, as Jim kisses his back again. “Please.”

“Good, sweetheart.”

Oswald moans at the endearment and Jim’s mouth moves down his spine in response. “So good for me, letting me hear how happy I make you. That pleases me, sweetheart, that you’re so open for me. Now, I’m gonna straddle your back in a minute, okay? I’ll be kneeling over your ass, so you might feel a little pinned, but you’re safe with me.”

“God, Jim, yes please,” Oswald whimpers. He wiggles his hips against the bed, and while he still isn’t hard, his cock is definitely aware of what’s happening. “I want it. I want _you_.”

“That’s so good,” Jim praises. Oswald feels Jim move over him and he’s not afraid; he feels protected under the detective, safe and secure like he’s never been anywhere or with anyone else. “This might be a little cold, but it’ll warm up in a second, all right?”

“What?”

But instead of answering, Jim pours a small drizzle of oil against Oswald’s skin, and then kneads the flesh beneath it. Oswald groans; he’s never had a massage before, and Jim’s fingers seek out every sore spot, every ache, every tired muscle in his back and neck and arms. “I played basketball in high school,” Jim discloses, and Oswald valiantly tries to listen even though his eyes are almost closed. “Pulled a calf muscle my junior year, and the team doctor sent me for a massage. I’ve kept baby oil on-hand ever since, it does wonders for aches and pains.”

“Bwuh,” Oswald replies, pliant. “Feels good.”

“Good,” Jim says. “I’m going to move now, do your lower half. Hold still for me, okay?”

“Mmm.”

Jim laughs, but Oswald’s too blissed out to care. Jim shifts over him and starts digging his fingers into the tight muscles of Oswald’s thighs, the backs of his knees, the soles of his feet. Oswald’s riding on a high of endorphins, zoned out in a subspace that Fish Mooney never made him feel. “Hey Oswald?”

“Yes?”

“Spread your legs a little for me, okay?”

Oswald shifts; Jim resettles on the bed between his thighs. “That’s so good,” Jim says, and Oswald half-purrs. “Hold still for me.”

Oswald would rather die than move. He doesn’t do anything but breathe when Jim’s fingers skim across the crease of his ass, doesn’t move or make a sound when Jim parts the skin there to expose him, doesn’t complain or react when Jim touches his hole with the pad of a finger. 

He almost shoots off the bed when Jim licks him there.

“Whoa, whoa!” Jim exclaims, grabbing Oswald’s hips and pinning him flat. “Easy, easy.”

“ _What’reyoudoing?_ ” Oswald gasps, cheeks burning. Probably both sets of cheeks. “What are you…?”

“Easy, sweetheart,” Jim says, and keeps Oswald pinned in place. “I want to rim you and you’re going to let me. That’s why I wanted you to wash so well.”

“B…but! It’s so… dirty!” Oswald is scandalized. “You’re really going to put your mouth there?”

“I really am, and I promise you’re going to like it,” Jim says. Oswald can’t see his face from their current positions, but he can hear the laughter in Jim’s voice. “Trust me?”

“Oh my God.”

“Oswald…”

“I trust you!”

“Then unclench your thighs, sweetheart, and relax your body. All that work I just did giving you a rubdown, and you’re all tense again.”

“I’ll show you tense,” Oswald grumbles, but forces his body to relax again. He squeezes his eyes closed. Maybe if he can’t see Jim, it won’t weird him out so badly.

Jim blows across his hole and Oswald almost shakes off the bed. “Oh!”

“Mmm-hmm. Now you’re getting it.”

“Smug.”

More laughter, and Jim licks into him fully this time, tongue slipping into Oswald and dancing along his insides, tickling him and teasing him. Oswald squirms, overwhelmed, wanting more and wanting it to stop all at once. “Jim, please,” he asks, but he has no idea what he wants. 

Jim’s not only a detective, Oswald soon realizes, but a clairvoyant. He slides a finger into Oswald alongside his tongue and it fills Oswald more fully, giving him a kind of stability/comfort that he hadn’t realized he was missing. He cries out, parts his legs further, and tries not to be embarrassed by the slurping wet sounds of Jim’s mouth. Soon, Oswald’s half up on his knees, bending his body backwards to meet Jim’s thrusts and licks. 

Any apprehension fades away completely.

“You look so gorgeous on my finger,” Jim rasps, nipping the skin of Oswald’s left buttock. “God, I want to get you on your back, can you do that for me? Let me see you.”

They move positions; Jim stays on his knees between Oswald’s thighs and Oswald stretches out beneath him. “How flexible are you?” Jim asks.

“Pretty agile, why?”

Oswald finds himself rolled in half, thighs framing Jim’s face, Jim’s tongue back inside him making him choke on thin air. “Oh my God, oh my God,” he chants, unable to keep his eyes open. “I’m so wet.”

Jim groans, lowers Oswald’s body back to the bed, slips a finger inside him again. “Can you take another finger?”

“ _Please_.”

Two fingers scissor him open, stretch and pull at tissues that are more used to metal and silicone rather than flesh and blood. The difference in the feeling knocks loose emotions in Oswald’s chest and he’s embarrassed to feel tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. “Jim?”

Jim meets his gaze, gives him a half smile and leans down to press a kiss to Oswald’s chest. “I know it’s a lot, sweetheart. Go ahead and let it out.”

Mortified, Oswald bursts into tears. Jim pauses, gathers him up in his arms, and holds him while the walls break down. Oswald can hear Jim saying sweet things to him, praising him, easing him through the emotional hell he can’t seem to get over. It takes him awhile to run out of tears, but when he does, he immediately hides his face in Jim’s neck. Jim’s having none of it, though, and forces Oswald to look at him. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” Oswald whispers. He drops his gaze only for Jim to put a gentle finger under his chin.

“Look at me.”

Oswald obeys, and Jim smiles. “Good. You’re perfect, you know that?”

Oswald blinks, confused. “But… but that was… I was… I ruined it,” he tries, helplessly willing Jim to understand how he feels. “That was so good and I ruined it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jim says. He cuddles Oswald closer and kisses his forehead. “You’re making it better, Oswald. You’re letting go of all of the things you don’t need anymore. You’re getting rid of that fear and pain and replacing it with what I want you to feel.”

“You’re not mad?”

Jim rubs his dick into Oswald’s leg. “Do I feel mad to you?”

The gentle tease works as intended; Oswald ducks his head, blushes, and laughs. “Thank you.”

“Mmm, thank you,” Jim replies. “You want to see something else that those tears helped?”

“What?”

Jim puts a gentle hand between Oswald’s legs, cups his fingers around Oswald’s cock, and jerks it lightly.

Oswald’s cock goes from zero to hard so fast, he gets dizzy with it. “What – that’s… holy _shit_ ,” Oswald swears, and looks down to see he’s _really, really hard_. “How?”

“I’m sure there’s a bunch of science involved,” Jim says. “But I can’t explain it. All I can do is see the proof in front of me. Now, you think you can lay back like you were?”

Oswald nods, disentangles himself from the safety of Jim’s arms. He lays back on the towels, spreads his legs, and welcomes Jim between them. But instead of penetration, Jim crooks those two fingers back in Oswald’s body. His other hand wraps around Oswald’s cock, and he leans down to lick at the crown. 

Oswald moans in pure pleasure and Jim plays him like an instrument; two fingers rubbing against his prostate, pushing the spongy tissue around and manipulating that pleasure spot inside him. Two fingers secure his cock, massaging the base and nudging against his balls. And Jim’s tongue, that hot, flexible organ, wraps around the crown and dips into his slit and steals his breath away.

Oswald screams when his body convulses and spills.

He must pass out; it’s the only way to explain why Jim’s wiping his groin with a damp cloth and why Jim’s breath smells of toothpaste instead of… well. “What happened?” Oswald croaks.

“I’m no expert, but I’m thinking you just had an orgasm,” Jim says, tenderly wiping Oswald’s balls and down the crack of his ass. “I can’t be sure though; further testing may be required.”

Oswald doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed; he’s still floating on endorphins and riding the high of his body. Until he realizes, “Jim, you didn’t come.” 

“You slept through that part,” Jim says, and grins at him. “Not that I minded. It was a great visual aide. I think I needed three strokes, max, before I spilled on the towels like a kid.”

“Sorry I missed that,” Oswald replies. He offers Jim a shy smile. “I bet you were beautiful to watch.”

“Next time, I’ll make sure you’re awake,” Jim promises. “Maybe I’ll even put on a show for you.”

Oswald’s mouth falls open. “You’d… you’d do that?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jim says. “Why, do you like that idea? You want me to jerk off for your enjoyment, sweetheart?”

Oswald gives a full-body shudder and his cock – ignored and unloved for so long – arches up towards his belly again. He’d be embarrassed by how his neediness if it weren’t for Jim’s hungry look. “Well I’m not sure my jaw’s up for another blow job,” Jim admits, “But I’d love to wrap my hand around that pretty cock and stroke you off. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please, are you crazy, of course,” Oswald babbles. “Anything, Jim. Oh my God. Yes.”

Jim licks his palm, wraps it around Oswald’s cock, and gives it a long, slow pull. Oswald shivers, half oversensitive from the last orgasm, half aching for the next one. “You’re so damn lovely,” Jim says, conversationally. “Your eyes are all pupil, can’t even see how blue they are. And your eyes are one of the best parts of your face. Well, to me they are. I’ve always had a thing for boys with nice eyes. And your eyes especially are the windows to your soul. I swear I can tell exactly what you’re thinking just by looking at you.”

Oswald tries to pay attention to the litany of words Jim says, each one confessed like a secret for Oswald’s ears only. And it’s not only the motion of Jim’s hand, but the comfort he gives, the way Oswald feels connected to him now, in ways more than rescuer/rescued or roommates. He’s excited to belong to the man bringing him such pleasure, he realizes. Not only aroused, but looking forward to the future and what his relationship with Jim will bring. 

The orgasm is almost an afterthought the second time. Jim works him through it until the pleasure becomes too much; he softens and Jim cleans him up, gathering the soiled towels and rags and moving them to the bathroom. Oswald resolves to drag them to the basement tomorrow and wash them for Jim. “I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

Jim laughs, pulls the sheets and blankets back onto the bed. “You don’t need them.”

“You mean… you want me to stay here? Sleep with you in bed?”

“Where else would I… Oswald. You’re not sleeping on the couch ever again, unless you accidently fall asleep there. And even then, I’m a possessive bastard. I’ll most likely pick you up and carry you in here, if you do.”

“Oh.” Oh, wow. 

Jim fusses with the alarm on his phone, tucks Oswald in amongst the covers, and slides back into the bed next to him. “Are you going to be warm enough?”

“I think so. I’ve never slept with anyone before.”

“It’s not scary,” Jim says. “If anything, I’ll probably land on top of you in the night. I’m a sprawler.”

Oswald blushes and grins at the idea in equal measure. “I think I’d like that.”

“You would, would you? Hmm. All right, then – let’s try this.”

‘This’ is where Jim pulls and pushes at Oswald until he’s spooning the smaller man, chest-to-back, one of his thighs shoved possessively between Oswald’s. One strong arm wraps around Oswald’s chest and pins him close to the bigger man. 

Oswald’s deliriously happy with the result. “I like this.”

“Good. Now go to sleep.”

Go to sleep? How can he possibly go to sleep, he’s snuggled in Jim’s arms like a lover, like something precious, like something worthy, and what a night – what a night! He not only got it up, but got off twice, how can Jim think he’s tired with all of the excitement and…


	6. Five: But Very Wise Was He

Jim wakes with Oswald sprawled across his chest and a giant smile sprawled across his face. Oswald, naked as the day he was born, drooling on Jim meets Jim’s criteria for most adorable thing ever; his reluctance to wake or move has Jim laughing and prodding at the other man until Oswald wakes up enough to be coherent.

Sleepy Oswald is delightful and Jim realizes he’s never, ever going to be able to let Oswald out of his life.

There’s coffee and reheated bowls of stew for breakfast; Jim picks out most of the greens (to Oswald’s dismay) but eats several carrots (to Oswald’s delight). Full and in a good mood, he shoos Oswald down the hallway to dress and dresses himself.

“Jim?”

Jim glances up, sees Oswald in a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt with a few holes at the bottom hem. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think I’m going to need clothes before I get a paycheck,” he says. “I have my one nice sweater and pants from Miss Mooney, and these jeans and a few tees, but nothing else.”

Jim frowns. Has he really been so oblivious to Oswald’s lack of proper clothing? “Hang on,” he says. “I’ll give you some money and you can get something today.”

“I’ll pay you back when…”

“Hush,” Jim says, and shakes his head. “You don’t need to pay me back, sweetheart. It’s not my money and your money, it’s going to be our money, right? Would you let me give you money if you buy groceries?”

Oswald makes a face like he can’t figure out a way to argue with Jim’s logic. Finally he gives in, accepts the cash without any complaint. “I’ll be very grateful to be able to pay for part of my own way around here,” he grumbles, but that’s all. “By the way, do you think Harvey would be willing to give me a lift to Olsen’s Meat and Deli before you two get to the police department? It’s not that far out of the way.”

“I don’t see it as a problem.”

Oh, how the words come back to bite Jim. They make it downstairs, both dressed – neither bruised – and are mutually embarrassed when Harvey lets out a wolf-whistle. “Well, this answers that question,” the grizzled detective says, laughing at the pair of them. Oswald blushes while Jim flips Harvey off. “I’m amazed that you two could drag yourselves out of bed. Did the sun even need to bother shining today? We could’ve just used the pair of you instead.”

“Fuck you, Harvey,” Jim says, and opens the back door for Oswald to sit down. “We’re giving Oswald a lift to Olsen’s Meat and Deli before we head into the station.”

“Oh we are, are we?” Harvey mock-complains. “Do we need to take the princess here anywhere else afterwards? Buckingham-fucking-Palace, maybe? He wants to see the Crown Jewels?”

“Jim’s jewels are the only ones worth viewing,” comes a soft voice from within the car, and Harvey starts choking on his own spit. “So if you’d rather keep bitching and be late, that’s fine, or we could go now and you two could still make it to work on time.”

Jim roars with laughter at the horrified look on Harvey’s face. “You kind of asked for that, partner.”

“Fuck, kid’s got a mouth on him,” Harvey says. “Who’d have known? Fine, fine, since you’re already in the car, Jesus. We’ll drop him off at Olsen’s.”

“Thank you,” Oswald says, primly. 

Jim gets into the passenger seat and makes sure to keep his eyes forward so he doesn’t keep laughing at Harvey’s expense. The car’s quiet until Harvey says, “So what’s at Olsen’s?”

“We’re stuffing sausages today.”

Harvey swears; when Jim catches a glance of Oswald’s face, he’s smirking. “Oswald,” Jim chastises, and Oswald immediately looks contrite. “Stop antagonizing Harvey.”

“Sorry, Harvey,” Oswald says, in the most insincere tone ever.

“Fucking wise guys,” Harvey’s mumbling, but he nods. “Thought you were working in a restaurant?”

“Yes, but I promised Chris Olsen I’d make him a batch of my mom’s famous onion sausage so he could sell it, and today seemed like as good a time as any. Besides, I’m oddly energized.”

“Oswald!”

Oswald blinks. “What?”

It takes Jim a second to realize the last comment wasn’t meant as innuendo. That is, until Oswald blushes. “Oh. Right, that’s probably why I have energy to burn.”

“Dear God, I can’t drive any faster, shut up both of you.”

When Harvey pulls up to the curb in front of Olsen’s, Oswald leans forward across the seat and puts a quick kiss to Jim’s cheek. “Bye,” he says.

“Bye.”

Oswald gets out and looks over his shoulder, waving to the pair of detectives. Jim winks at him, shoos him inside as Harvey guns the engine and gets them back into traffic. “Got a new case,” Harvey says. “Smuggling.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

And yes, there are actual smugglers in Gotham, because the gangsters, drug dealers, and other assorted criminals aren’t enough to deal with. Jim and Harvey end up by the waterfront, spend more than half of their day dealing with dock workers who have no interest in being potential witnesses.

“Well that was a waste of fucking time,” Harvey complains when they get back to the car. “I’d bet my ass most of those guys knew exactly who we were talking about.”

Jim nods. He pulls his notepad from his pocket and keeps going back to the one clue they’d found thus far: the name Lettrice. “It doesn’t mean this Lettrice is going to help us if we find her. And who names their kid Lettrice?”

“Who names their kid Oswald?” 

Jim doesn’t get a chance to retort to that statement. His cell phone vibrates and when he looks down, he sees his home phone number flash across the screen. “At least we have a name to hunt for. Hang on a second.”

Jim answers with a, “Hey, you. You’re home already?”

“Home, showered, and on my way back out the door. I figured I’d head downtown and spend some of that money on new clothes. Or rather, new to me clothes. There are some thrift shops I want to check out. And new shoes, maybe, if I have anything left over.”

“Yeah, okay. Me ‘n Harvey are on our way back to the station, we’ve been down by the docks all morning.”

“Ugh,” Oswald says. “Charming.”

“Yeah. But at least we have something – a woman named Lettrice.”

“Lettrice? Oh, you mean – “ and here Oswald’s enunciation changes – “the Reader?”

“Let me put you on speaker,” Jim says, and nudges Harvey with an elbow. “Say that again?”

Oswald hesitates. “I’m not sure I should be getting involved in your cases.”

“It’s okay,” Jim says. “We already have the name from another witness, so nothing can be traced back to you.”

“Um. Lettrice isn’t a name of a person, it’s a title… it’s Italian, translates to ‘the reader’. He’s a bookie that works in Don Falcone’s territory.”

Jim and Harvey both gape at the phone. “How do you know that, Oswald?” Harvey asks, for once not calling Jim’s lover ‘kid’ or ‘penguin’ or any condescending nickname. “Have you met him?”

“No. I mean, not really? He met with Miss Mooney a few times, but I never saw him. I heard his voice once, though. He sounds like the guy who played Darth Vader?”

“Who?” Jim asks.

“You know, really deep voice, the actor. I can’t think of his name. I think the reader’s also African American, come to think of it.”

“So we’re looking for a black man with a deep voice. Is that what you’re telling me?” Harvey complains. “Well thanks, kid. That’ll go a long way when we get back to the station.”

“Hey, it’s more than you had five minutes ago!”

“Oswald, thank you, you’ve given us at least a direction in which to look,” Jim soothes, giving Harvey a look. “We’ll start with the name when we get back to the station.”

“Okay. Good luck, Jim. I’ll see you later?”

“Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

By the time they get back to the station, they’ve missed lunch and it’s raining. “Fucking weather,” Harvey complains. “I guess we’re doing NCIC database checks today. Either that or we face the hurricane outside.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right with you,” Jim says. He dials his house and grumbles when no one answers. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“He’s not answering.”

“He just told you he was going out, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but in this weather…”

“Jim, do you hear yourself?” Harvey asks, steering Jim towards their desks. “He’s not a child and not an idiot, right? Give the kid some credit that he can take care of himself.”

Jim doesn’t whine but it’s a near thing. He figures Harvey to be correct, that he can’t smother Oswald, no matter how much he may want to, so he digs into the criminal databases and tries to track down Lettice.

For a cop who loves his job, it can sure be boring sometimes.

Jim stretches, stares at the clock and wills it to go a little faster. Harvey’s off for coffee when the name finally pops up, and Oswald’s right: a cranky African American face stares back at Jim from the computer screen. “Harvey!” Jim shouts. “I think we’ve got something!”

Harvey ignores him from the far side of the room. “Hey, Harvey!” Jim tries again, and this time, Harvey holds up a hand to quiet him. Jim taps an impatient pencil against his desk, glares at Harvey when Harvey rejoins him. “What the hell was that, ignoring me?”

“We’ve got to go,” Harvey says, grabbing his coat. “Now.”

“What’s going on?” Jim asks, but he’s got his jacket in hand and follows Harvey out the front doors. “Harvey?”

“Remember I told you that you needed to trust the kid, give him a break?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wrong,” Harvey replies. “I just overheard a call to the desk from a kid shopping in the downtown district, one of the thrift stores, Second Chances. Said the place was being robbed.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Yeah. The kid on the phone said his name was Oswald.”

Jim breaks into a run and Harvey’s right behind him. Jim wishes he had the keys to the car because Harvey’s not driving fast enough to get them to the appropriate shop. “Harvey, if anything’s happened to him…”

“I know, partner.”

Three black-and-whites surround the building face when they pull up in front of the shop. “Who’s in charge?” Jim barks, and one of the officers raises a hand. “Have you heard anything?”

“Not yet. Story is, a guy’s in there with a gun, waving the thing around, trying get us to give him a car out. He’s got a few hostages.”

“Who the hell goes into a thrift store to get hostages?” Jim demands of the universe in general.

“Well, from what we can gather, he’s got some gangster in there, wants the guy to call Don Falcone for something.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harvey swears. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, he recognized the guy, followed him into the store, but the guy won’t play ball or something. He hung up on me about ten minutes ago and now won’t answer the phone.”

Jim wants to punch something. Or someone. He’s raging, shaking with temper until he realizes that all of the shaking isn’t his – his phone’s vibrating like crazy in his pocket. “What?” he snarls, answering.

“Jim?”

“Oswald!” Jim cries, catching Harvey’s attention and the attention of the few officers in earshot. 

But before Oswald can say or do anything else, another voice comes on the line. “You Gordon?” 

“Yes. Who am I talking to?”

“Penguin says he’s your bitch now, doesn’t belong to Mooney no more.”

“He’s his own person, but he’s no longer in Mooney’s employ. So whatever you want from Don Falcone, Oswald’s not the right way to get it. And if you hurt him, there’s no place you’ll be able to hide from me, do you understand?”

“Fuck. You fucking piece of shit,” the guy yells, and Jim’s not sure whether it’s at him or at Oswald. Then a yelp and a crack and heavy breathing. “That goddamn little bitch was telling me the truth. He’s not connected. Fucking bitch belongs to a fucking cop, how the fuck does that happen?” 

“Please, I told you,” and Jim could cry in relief from hearing Oswald’s voice. “I swear, there’s nothing I know to help you. You don’t want to hurt these people or me, right? Please! I’m just a whore and I don’t want to die because of it!”

“I should fucking shoot you, you piece of shit.”

Jim doesn’t think twice about it. He drops his phone and starts running towards the storefront, drawing his gun on the way. He can hear people shouting behind him but he tunes it out, goes crashing through the glass windows in the front because _he can see that asshole with a gun drawn on Oswald_.

The sound of shattering glass startles both the gunman and Oswald; Oswald dives to one side when the gunman fires, and Jim fires at the same time, hitting the gunman squarely in the chest, center mass, putting him on the floor. 

People in the shop scream, but Jim’s voice is steady when he calls, “ALL CLEAR” to the team outside. He checks the gunman for a pulse, doesn’t find one, and kicks the man’s gun to the side. “Oswald?” he calls.

Oswald’s head pops up from behind a counter, tears running down his face, and Jim’s on him before he can move. “Hey, sweetheart, shh,” Jim says, cradling the smaller man to his chest. “I’m here. I’m here, you’re safe.”

“You fucking idiot!”

And, Harvey’s joined them. “You broke about a hundred departmental regulations and could’ve gotten your stupid ass killed! Are you insane?”

“Then ask them to fire me, Harvey,” Jim says, carding a hand through Oswald’s dark hair. “Because right now, I really don’t give a damn.”


	7. Six: And Then One Day, a Magic Day

They wrap him in a shock blanket and have him sit in a chair next to Jim’s desk so he can wait for the captain to finish ‘reaming Jim a new one’, in Harvey’s words. And Oswald can hear them, despite the captain’s closed door; it’s loud and it’s angry and it’s violent.

No matter how many times Miss Mooney used him, she never once went near him with a gun. If he closes his eyes, he can still see it in front of him, waving around in his face. Can see the man, so furious, ready to shoot him just for being a whore.

“Are you okay?”

Oswald makes a sound he’s not proud of, curls into the chair in a protective ball. “Hey, kid, take a breath.”

Harvey. Right. Oswald knows Harvey, knows Harvey won’t hurt him. “S… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harvey says. “They kicked me outta the room.”

“Is it serious?”

Harvey looks at him with a firm gaze. “Kid, my partner just stormed into a building like a gangster, shooting first and asking questions later. Now we’re all trying to sell this like he went in because he knew you were in imminent and fatal danger, but if IA digs into this, he could lose his badge for it. Hell, depending on who he’s pissed off around here, they could press charges against him for murdering that guy.”

“No!” Oswald says, cringing. “No, Harvey, we can’t let that happen! There’s got to be something we can do!”

“They’re going to want to talk to you. Make sure you tell them everything as accurately as possible. And make sure you tell them that the bastard was out to kill you when Jim rushed in. Now I gotta get out of here before they bust my ass with witness tampering. You get me?”

“I never saw you.”

Harvey nods and disappears into the midst of the officers in the room. Oswald sinks further into his chair and wills himself to disappear.

Minutes or hours later, a voice says, “Mr. Cobblepot?”

A grey-haired woman stands over him. “Yes ma’am?”

“Captain Essen would like to see you in her office, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He follows the woman – a secretary? – to the captain’s office, is escorted inside. Neither Jim nor Harvey are present, but three other people in police uniform sit at a table, along with a slender black woman Oswald knows is the captain. “Mr. Cobblepot,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you this afternoon. We’d like to ask you a few questions about what occurred today.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Did you recognize the man who pulled the gun on you?”

Oswald shakes his head no; it’s the truth, and that’s what Harvey told him to stick with. “I’d never seen him before.”

“Not even at Fish Mooney’s club?”

“No ma’am.”

“You worked for Fish?”

“In a capacity, ma’am.”

“Bartender? Server? How did you fit into Mooney’s empire?”

Dear God, did they not know? “Miss Mooney employed me from the time I was fifteen until a few weeks ago to act as a submissive for her,” he says. He watches the faces around the table. Two hold their poker face; one gapes; the captain arches an eyebrow at him. “In return for my submission, she provided protection for my mother and myself within her empire. It was a mutually beneficial exchange.”

“So you’d met her criminal clientele?”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t privy to any closed-door conversations or interactions. I was summoned to perform sexual or service submissive acts at her discretion, but was not allowed to interact or engage with any others at any other time.”

Oswald’s amazed at his own calm regurgitation of the facts. “There’s no reason that man should’ve stuck a gun in my face and threatened to kill me,” he says. “Detective Gordon, he pretty much saved my life. He heard that man tell me I should be dead on the phone, and then Jim was there, shooting him at the same moment the man tried to shoot me. I’d be dead without Jim’s interference. And the rest of the hostages, they’d probably be dead too.”

“Are you romantically involved with Detective Gordon?” another man asks.

Oswald tries not to blush. “I don’t… I, um. Yes?”

“Is that an answer or a question,” one of them asks – a foreboding man with an angry expression who probably hates Oswald on sight. 

“It’s an answer, sir,” Oswald replies. “I’m in love with him. I don’t think he knows it yet.”

“Mr. Cobblepot. Detective Gordon leapt into a firefight to save your life,” says the other woman at the table. “I think you can take that as a declaration of intent.”

Oswald blushes harder, ducks his face to stare at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I… I know Jim didn’t do things by the book. Even I can tell that much, but. Um. He’s the most honest, honorable man you’ll ever have in your department.”

“Really,” says the last, quiet man. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Oswald says. “And yes, he might have leapt before looking, but if he hadn’t, I doubt I’d be sitting here talking to you right now. I just. Jim’s whole life purpose is to make this city safer for innocent people. And maybe I’m not the most innocent person, but I certainly don’t deserve to be shot. That man was going to kill me. He had a gun in my face and his finger on the trigger. If Jim had waited, I’d be dead. I’ve got no doubts about that. Just like I’ve got no doubts about Jim.”

“And what would Jim think, if he knew what kind of person he was dealing with?” the foreboding one says.

Oswald straightens his spine. “Jim knows who I am and what I am. And he stepped in to save my life anyway. That should tell you a lot more about him than anything else I can say. Did you have any more questions of me?”

They look at each other, and Oswald valiantly tries to make eye contact with each of them. It’s Captain Essen who says, “I assume you’re staying somewhere in Gotham?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oswald replies. 

“And that Detective Gordon knows how to get hold of you, if we have more questions.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gives him half a smile; it’s tired and tense, but it’s there. “Go home, Mr. Cobblepot. If we have more questions, we’ll be in contact.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

He makes it back to Jim’s desk in time to see Jim pacing around the area. “Jim?”

Jim stops mid-stride, turns, and practically swallows Oswald in a full-body hug. “Where have you been?”

“Your captain was getting a statement. I think she wanted to talk to me before you did.”

Jim groans. “Were you honest?”

“Very. They know my past, Jim. Maybe not how we met, but they know why that gunman was in the thrift shop. I told them the truth, I swear.”

“That’s good. So good,” Jim says. “I’m proud of you.”

Oswald curls further into Jim’s body, stealing the other man’s warmth and heat. “So what happens now?”

“I’m on administrative leave for the week,” Jim says. “But it’s paid leave, at least, until they decide whether or not my career’s for shit. Did you get medical attention, do you need to go to the hospital or anything?”

“I’d really like to go home now,” Oswald says.

“Me, too. Let’s catch a cab, though, I don’t think I’m up for the subway.”

“Okay.”

They walk outside together, shoulders brushing; when they make it to the front steps, Harvey’s there, waiting for them. “Figured you two might need a lift.”

“Harvey…”

“Shut up and get in the car, both of you, goddamn. I’m exhausted and you want to argue with me, what the hell’s wrong with you.”

“Thank you Harvey,” Oswald says, and climbs into the backseat. He watches Jim shake Harvey’s hand, sees Harvey clap Jim on the shoulder, and it’s good. He’s okay.

He passes out in the backseat before anyone can say anything to him. Or, he assumes he does, because they go from being in front of the police station to the front of Jim’s building in the blink of an eye. “Hey,” Jim says. “You awake?”

“Yes,” Oswald yawns. “I’m awake now. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. But if you don’t wake up, you’ll be awake all night. Besides, I can’t carry you to the elevator.”

Oswald taps Harvey on the shoulder. “Thank you again for the ride.”

“Thanks for backing up my partner,” Harvey replies, and they nod at each other. 

Oswald gets out of the car and Jim asks, “What was that?”

“Harvey warned me they might bury you, told me to be truthful in case I was too scared to be honest with them. I owe him one.”

“I think we both do. Come on, let’s go inside.”

They travel up the steps and go in, take the elevator to Jim’s apartment. When Oswald walks in, he stops, chokes on a laugh. “What is it?”

“I still don’t have any new clothes,” he says, and sits on the sofa, dropping his head between his knees as the hysteria overwhelms him. Jim wraps himself around Oswald, but it’s no use. “Thought I was going to die today,” he says, tucking his face into Jim’s neck. “And there you were again, my white knight in shining armor. How’m I ever supposed to live my life without you in it? Thank God, Jim.”

“I know, sweetheart, when that bastard hit you, I wanted to shoot him right there and then, but I couldn’t do anything, not until he actually threatened your life.”

“I believe you. No one else would’ve cared if I’d lived or died, but you. You saved me. Again.”

Jim lets him cling, lets him sob, and as embarrassing as it is, he feels better for it. “My face hurts.”

“You’re going to end up with a black eye,” Jim says. “Do you want some ice?”

“No. Oh God, I’m supposed to start my new job tomorrow night.”

“Oswald…”

“No, I have to go. If I don’t show up, I’m dead. Maybe literally. Besides… if, if things go bad. We need an income.”

“They’re not going to pull my badge for this.”

“Jim, this department is full of the most corrupt cops on the planet. They might pull it out of spite. And I want us to be prepared, in case. I can at least cook while you’re on administrative leave, right? Worst case scenario, we’ll be a two-income household in the near future. Right?”

“Right,” Jim sighs. 

They’re silent and intertwined on the couch, both listening to each other breathe. Oswald’s exhausted and it’s not even seven. “Want to go to bed and stay there until tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Maybe a quick detour to the shower first?”

“Okay. And if you like, I could give you a massage tonight.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Oswald manages a small smile. “Good.”

They weave and wobble to the bathroom because neither wants to let the other go. Jim starts the hot water and they undress. They’re not talkative, but Oswald doesn’t want conversation, anyway. He steps into the shower and holds a hand out to Jim, asking and inviting all at once.

Jim presses him into the tile, full-body contact that sets Oswald’s nerves on fire. “Please,” he begs. “Want to be full of you.”

“I don’t have anything in here.”

“I don’t care. Use soap. Isn’t the baby oil on the counter?”

“Oswald, I don’t have condoms.”

“I don’t care. I want this. I want to know I’m alive and that I’m yours, just… just fuck me. Like this. Please?”

Jim groans and Oswald knows he’s almost won. So in a bold move he extracts himself from Jim’s grasp, turns to face the tiles, and reaches behind himself to pull apart the cheeks of his ass, exposing his hole to Jim. “Please, Jim. Wouldn’t you rather be here?”

Jim nearly rips down the shower curtain in his haste to get to the oil on the counter. “I’m not going to last right now,” he growls, crowding Oswald face first into the tiles. “I want to make you come, Oswald, are you hard for me?”

“Yes,” Oswald moans. He’s not lying; his cock’s stiff enough to drill through the wall. “Get in me!”

It’s not how he imagined it, the first time Jim’s physically inside him. He expected to be in a bed at least; but this is what he wants and needs now, and Jim’s not denying him. Oswald flinches as Jim touches him, not in fear, but because he’s so over-sensitized to everything. “You’ll make me come like that,” he groans. “Jim, hurry.”

“Fuck, I’m trying,” Jim says, wiggling his fingers inside Oswald’s body. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just do it! Please!”

“Christ, Oswald,” Jim says, slicking his fingers back and jacking a little oil over his own cock. “I’m here, baby, breathe out for me.”

Oswald exhales, pushes the air out of his lungs – and in that instant, Jim’s pushing his way in, filling him up, bottoming out so that their balls slap against each other’s. “Oh!” 

Jim wraps strong arms around him, holds him still when he goes up on his toes. “Sh, sweetheart. Stay still, don’ wanna hurt you.”

“I… oh my God, Jim,” Oswald pants. He clenches down and squirms, drawing a moan from the man behind him. “You’re inside me.”

“Yeah, baby, I am,” Jim replies, and presses a kiss to the back of Oswald’s neck. He nibbles at Oswald’s skin. “Fuck, you little beauty, you sexy little beauty, showing me that pretty pucker and drawing me inside you, squeezing the come outta me. You gonna relax for me, sweetheart, let me move inside you?”

Oswald whimpers, arches his back to fit better in Jim’s embrace. “Please, want it,” he begs. Between the heat of the shower and the heat of Jim’s body, he’s close to delirious. “Kiss me, please?”

Jim reaches up and guides Oswald’s head around to press their mouths together. It’s not comfortable, but Oswald finds himself relaxing into the embrace, his body loosening just enough for Jim to make a sawing motion with his hips. “Yeah,” Jim says, kissing him, sharing air with him. “That’s it, gorgeous, just like that. Touch yourself for me, huh? Let me see you work that sweet prick for me.”

Oswald’s lizard brain rolls on its back and shows Jim its tummy. “Anything you want,” he responds, reaching down to take himself in hand. “Oh please. Please, make me come again, like last time? Like the world stopped?”

Jim doesn’t respond verbally; he simply braces his feet better and rocks into Oswald like he means it. It takes about a dozen thrusts for Oswald to spill all over his fingers with a cry, but Jim – Jim doesn’t come, continues fucking Oswald straight through Oswald’s orgasm. Oswald cries out for a second time when Jim angles at his prostate, over stimulating him, and he squirms until Jim growls, “Stop” in his ear.

“Let me,” Jim asks – plea and prayer in one. “Don’t fight me, let me fuck you, let me get you hard again, it’ll be so good, sweetheart, I promise…”

Oswald stops his struggles, endures the sensitivity, gasps and cries out and pleads, but he realizes that Jim’s right; the discomfort’s fading away, leaving nothing but a burning ball of _want_ in its place, and when that happens, it’s a switch flipped in his brain that has him shoving back to meet Jim’s thrusts.

“Good, baby,” Jim croons, and then pulls out of Oswald completely.

Oswald shrieks in frustration. “What’re you doing?”

Jim turns off the water, steps out of the shower. “We’re finishing this in bed. Come on, out of the tub.”

Oswald’s never dried off so fast in his life. Jim twines their hands together, drags Oswald into the bedroom and manhandles him onto the bed on his back. “You’re still so hard,” he says, licking Oswald’s stomach. “You look so good.”

“God, Jim, I can’t take it, please, I want more!”

Jim spreads Oswald’s legs, hitches the left up onto his shoulder, tilts Oswald’s body so that when he slides back in, he nails Oswald’s prostate on the first try. Oswald shouts his pleasure to the ceiling and Jim grins, wide and wicked. “Still can feel it?”

“Oh my God!”

Jim fucks him hard and fast, moving Oswald’s body up the bed with every thrust, and Oswald yowls in response, clutching at Jim’s back hard enough to bruise. “Yeah, sweetheart, just like that,” Jim growls, leaning over to bring their mouths together. “Want you to finish on my cock, baby, you fucking gorgeous boy, I could devour you, never let you leave my fuckin’ bed…”

Oswald comes, screaming, and Jim follows him over the edge this time, snarling in Oswald’s ear like a wild animal. He collapses onto the smaller man, having enough sense to stay up on his elbows until Oswald grunts and draws the bigger man down on top of him.

They lay there, panting, mouths brushing against each other’s, twined up in a sweaty, sticky mess.

“That was the most amazing thing I’ve experienced in my entire life,” Oswald says, reverently. “I had no idea anything could feel like that.”

“If you can talk already, I must’ve done something wrong,” Jim says, but he grins down at Oswald, kissing him again. “Next time, I’ll do better.”

Oswald just purrs.


	8. Seven: He Passed My Way, and While We Spoke

“You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

Oswald rolls his eyes at Jim’s question and Jim frowns. “I’m serious, Oswald.”

“So am I! What’re you going to do when you’re back at work, huh? Start skipping sleep altogether, so you can walk me to and from work? That’s ridiculous!”

Jim gives the younger man a swat on the butt with his hand and Oswald gasps. He shoots Jim a dirty glare. “I have to go to work, oh my God, don’t do that! How am I supposed to cook if I can’t sit down? Or stand? Or think properly?”

“You could just tell them you changed your mind.”

“It’s a Friday night and Maroni’s is going to be packed. Do you really think they’ll be okay if they let me skip it? It’s almost three o’clock, Jim, you have to let go of my ass and let me leave the apartment.”

Jim glances down and realizes that he has indeed clamped onto Oswald’s ass, holding the other man by a pants pocket. “I still don’t like the idea of you coming home at two in the morning by yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, we thought thrift-shopping would be easy, too.”

Oswald sighs and sinks into the only chair in the living room. “Aren’t you the crazy person who told me I should get a job and leave Gotham?”

“Wasn’t that before I took permanent ownership of your sweet little ass?” Jim shoots back, amused at the way Oswald blushes. “I think things have changed since we first met, sweetheart.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Oswald says, wagging a finger in his face. “None of that ‘sweetheart’ or ‘baby’ business. You’re not going to win every argument with endearments, no sir…”

“No?” Jim asks, sliding from the couch onto his knees, creeping across the floor to box Oswald into the chair. “I’m not going to win every argument, huh? Not even if I do… this?”

He presses a kiss to the center of Oswald’s chest, feeling Oswald’s breath stutter and heart pound. “No,” Oswald gasps. “You’re not.”

“Not even if I do… this?”

A kiss to Oswald’s throat. Oswald unconsciously tips his head back and Jim grins, nipping at the skin presented to him. “You’re mine, and I want to be able to take care of what’s mine,” Jim growls, latching his teeth into Oswald’s earlobe. He doesn’t bite down, but nips at the flesh. “I don’t like the idea of you working in a mobster’s kitchen, walking home alone late at night. I can’t help it, baby, I told you I’m a possessive bastard.”

Oswald’s hands come up, brace against Jim’s chest and push at him until there’s some space between them. “And I told you I belong to you, will be whatever you want me to be, but I’m not your darn doormat, James Gordon. I’m going to work, and that’s that.”

Jim huffs out a breath, secretly thrilled that Oswald’s not only holding his ground, but glaring at him for good measure. “Well…”

“Off!” 

“Sheesh,” Jim say, getting up. “Give a guy a few orgasms, and he turns into a bossy thing on you.”

Oswald pinkens. It’s adorable. It’s all Jim can do to not turn into a complete caveman and drag him into the bedroom. “I’m not bossy,” Oswald says, and gives Jim a shy smile. “But I’m going to work. Now give me a kiss goodbye.”

Jim leans over, gives Oswald a slow, heartfelt kiss. By the time they part, they’re both panting. “That was completely unfair,” Oswald says, and adjusts himself in his pants. “Damn it.”

Jim laughs, helps Oswald to his feet, and walks with him to the door. “See you tonight?”

Oswald nods, gives Jim another quick kiss, and disappears into the hall. 

Five minutes later, the buzzer rings. Jim grins, makes his way back to the door, calling, “Jesus, Oswald, just use your key!”

But when he pulls the door open, it’s not Oswald standing there. And Jim foolishly answered the door unarmed. “Detective Gordon,” says a large, hulking man. Jim tenses, but the other two men behind the speaker make him stop. 

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Gio,” the big man says. He smiles and… offers Jim a hand? “Gio Vozzella. I’m an associate of Don Falcone’s. These two gentlemen are friends. May we come in?”

“Sure,” Jim says, widening the door. He takes a cautious step back, noting the way the others move to box him in. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

“Don Falcone’s asked that we locate you and bring you to him for a visit,” Vozzella says. “He’s heard about your actions yesterday in the downtown district, wants to talk to you about it.”

“I was just doing my job,” Jim replies. “There’s nothing much to tell.”

“Now we both know that’s not quite everything,” the big man says. “Please allow me to be more direct. I’m to bring you to Don Falcone by whatever means necessary, but I don’t like to handle any business that way. Detective Gordon, I’d appreciate your cooperation here. I can only offer you my word that Don Falcone’s anxious to meet you, with no catches or hidden agendas. Now, if you’d care to grab your shoes, we’ve got a car waiting downstairs.”

Jim winces, doesn’t see a lot of ways around this. All three men are taller, wider, and more heavily armed. Jim grabs his shoes from the hall floor, unable to hide the smile at Oswald’s obsessiveness at keeping their shoes organized. He tugs them on, says, “Will I be back tonight? Or can I leave my partner a note?”

“Don Falcone won’t keep you long, Detective. You won’t need a note.”

Right. Fuck. Jim finishes putting his shoes on, walks with the threesome down the stairs and out the front door. A black, sleek towncar awaits them and he’s politely asked to sit inside. 

When he sits down, he blinks; Don Falcone sits across from him. “Thank you for meeting with me, Detective,” the mobster says. “I hope my associates didn’t inconvenience you much.”

“I didn’t have much to interrupt,” Jim says, trying not to be outright hostile. “Mr. Falcone, I’m not sure what it is that brings you here this afternoon.”

“I wanted to thank you for sparing the life of Oswald Cobblepot, detective. Offer you my sincere appreciation for your involvement in his life.”

“I’m not sure how someone like me merits the thanks of the head of a mafia family,” Jim says, quietly. “Since I was only doing my job.”

“It was more than that, Detective Gordon,” Falcone says. “You’ve proven yourself to be very loyal to Oswald’s well-being. Not like the last person who sunk claws into him.”

“Oswald’s a good man,” Jim replies. “Easy to like. Makes a man want to be… overprotective.”

Falcone laughs. “I assure you, detective, I’ve got no ill-designs upon Oswald. I’m probably as concerned for his safety as you are.”

“Really.” And Jim can’t help that bit of sarcasm, not really. “If you were concerned for Oswald’s safety, then I can’t understand how he was living with Fish Mooney.”

“I don’t believe I owe you explanations, detective,” Falcone says, face hard. “Needless to say, Fish knew her place when handling the boy, and I thought it was time you and I had a similar conversation.”

“I don’t see how my relationship with Oswald is any of your concern. Sir,” Jim adds, when Falcone’s face darkens. “If you’re concerned for Oswald’s safety, perhaps it would be best to stay away from him.”

“That’s what I’ve done.”

The words are snarled, and Jim flinches back as Falcone’s hands tighten into claws. There’s no sign of a gun yet, but Jim’s not stupid enough to think the mobster’s unarmed. “I’ve stayed well and clear from Oswald’s life, detective, for his own good and at his mother’s behest. That’s why I hadn’t interfered with your dealings with him until now.”

Jim’s a detective; he detects things. Like how Falcone brings up Oswald’s mother. “You knew Gertrud Kapelput?”

Falcone stiffens, then slumps into the seat. “I hear you’re an excellent man, detective. Honest. Honorable. Sincere.” 

“Where’d you hear that from?”

“My son’s mouth, as relayed to me by one of the majors in the police department.”

Jim blinks. Detective or not, he’s missing something. “Explain, please.”

“It’s very easy. You saved the life of Oswald Cobblepot. He went into a room of police majors to tell them that not only are you a good and honorable man, but that you saved his life… and that he’s in love with you. That got back to me, detective.”

“You’ve got a police major on your payroll?”

Falcone smiles. “ Jim – may I call you Jim? – everyone needs loyal associates. I happen to have a good friend who’s a police major. And, knowing the way I tend to look out for Oswald, he gave me the heads-up I needed.”

“You said your son,” Jim blurts, as the pieces start falling into place. “You’re… Jesus Christ. You’re Oswald’s _father_?”

Falcone doesn’t answer. After a moment’s silence – and Jim’s open-mouthed gaping – Falcone says, “I was born in the United States, right here in New York. But my family home’s in the north of Italy. We’d go to all of the European countries, my family and I. At one point, we’d ended up in Poland, and there I met a young woman who’d become my mistress.”

“Gertrud Kapelput.”

“Yes.”

“Who you brought to America.”

“Yes,” Falcone says. “And, once here, she told me she was happy to be my mistress, but didn’t want to marry or have children.”

Jim shakes his head. “Then how…?”

“Gertrud died. Last year. We’ve all heard the stories of deathbed confessions, detective. I thought he was another man’s by-blow. When she told me he was mine, it was easy enough to have the claim tested.”

“And he’s your son.”

“Yes.” Falcone stares out the window. “You’re now the only person who knows that, other than me. Everyone else assumed I’d taken a particular shine to Oswald thanks to his involvement with Fish Mooney. No one – not Fish, not even Oswald – knows the truth. And now I see he’s fallen in love with you, and how desperately he believes in you, and I had to come and see the great James Gordon for myself.”

“I hope I’ve lived up to expectations,” Jim says. He scrubs a hand across his face. “Christ. Oswald worked for Fish for years, and if Gertrud had just opened her mouth sooner, his life would’ve been completely different.”

“I have no way of bringing him into my family, detective. My wife, my children – they don’t need to know what Oswald was for Maria Mooney. They don’t need to be aware of a half-brother or stepson.”

“So you’re going to let, what? Vanity keep you from forming a bond with your son?”

“Not vanity. No, not vanity. Detective Gordon, my son – whether I claim him or not – is a target thanks to his association with my business dealings. What would you think would happen to him if others knew he was my own flesh and blood? Do you think it would make it easier, for a boy of Oswald’s constitution? I’d have to bring him to my home and never let him out again to have a normal life. Would that have been better?”

Jim knows Falcone’s correct, but hearing the mob boss admit to such a thing boggles him. “I still don’t understand how I fit into this,” he says.

“I want my son happy,” Falcone says. “Safe. I wanted him away from Maria’s disturbing care since I found out who he was to me, but how could I do such a thing when for the longest time, she was the only one standing between him and the rest of the world? Judge me if you will, but he was safer with her than on the streets of this city. And no one would’ve stood up for him, nor taught him to stand up for himself, until you came along.”

“Me.”

“I’ve been watching you, Jim.” And that wasn’t creepy at all. “I’d been having him followed for some time, saw him go to Maroni’s earlier this week. When I heard that news I almost had a heart attack. I had no idea what the young fool was doing, and had my men bring me to the location immediately. He spent an hour inside, and I watched, waited for someone to carry his body out of the restaurant. Instead, he exits the eatery laughing, carrying a white bag and heading towards the police station.”

Jim remembers that day well: Oswald coming in, Oswald beaming a smile at him. The two of them sitting on the front steps, sharing a fork, curled together talking. “You saw the two of us eating lunch.”

“I saw my son happy with a man who obviously adored him,” Falcone says. “And I couldn’t believe my eyes. All of the time I’d known the penguin, I’d known a shy, pliable, obedient boy without a thought in his head. Then, away from Fish only two and a half weeks, and he’s a different person. He’s laughing and smiling and flirting with a policeman. So I’d asked Major Harris to keep an eye on the two of you for me, to see what type of policeman you were. I never expected you to be the man who’d step between a bullet and my son.” 

“I’d shield Oswald from a lot of things. A lot of hurts. All of them, if I could.”

“Because you love him.”

“Because I love him,” Jim agrees. “Though I’m sure you’re aware I haven’t told him yet.”

“As I know he hadn’t yet told you, based on Major Harris’ comments,” Falcone says. “And I’m sorry to rush the issue, detective, but if my meddling can bring some measure of happiness to the both of you, then it was something I felt obligated to do.”

Jim barks a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he says, sinking back into the car seat in relief. “I honestly thought I was being taken away to be killed.”

Falcone quirks a smile. “You must think terrible things about me, young man.”

Jim’s laughter shakes his shoulders. “Forgive me,” he says. “It’s been an odd experience.”

Falcone nods. “I’d like to offer you my assistance, as it were.”

“No, thank you,” Jim says, before the other man can say anything further. “And I’m not saying this to be rude, Don Falcone, you have my word. I’m saying this in the best interests of Oswald’s safety and happiness. I’m not – nor will I ever be – for sale. No deals, no trades, no admissions. And I don’t want anyone thinking otherwise. Anything you do, no matter how well intentioned on Oswald’s behalf, will make me seem dirty.”

“No offense meant?”

Jim flushes, knowing that the mafia boss is probably cutting him a lot of slack at the moment. “Sir, I understand you want to do what’s best for me and for Oswald, and for that, I can only offer you my thanks and gratitude. But at some point, I want to get Oswald the hell out of Gotham. I can be a cop anywhere. He can be a cook anywhere. We don’t need to stay here. But I need to get cleared from Internal Affairs and he needs to stay alive long enough for me to put that long-term goal into play. So for that – and for my honor – I have to thank you, but say no, to any offer of help. I hope you understand, and can forgive any unintentional offense I may have given.”

Falcone studies him, and finally holds out a hand to Jim. “My son judged you well, Jim,” the mafia don says. “And I’m glad he’s in your care.”

“I promise, no matter where we go or what we do, I’ll always take good care of him. He’s it for me. And I promise you now, he’s never going to know who you are to him unless you tell him yourself. I won’t put that on his shoulders to bear.”

“I believe you.” Falcone raps three times on the window, and the car door opens to the outside world. “I hope you and I never meet under different circumstances,” the mobster says. “Because I’m glad to know you.”

Jim shakes the man’s hand, exits the car. Gio’s sitting on the stoop in front of Jim’s apartment building. “I told you, no problems,” the big man says, clapping Jim on the arm. “Thank you for being so agreeable.”

“Because I had a choice,” Jim replies, but offers the man a smile anyway.

The goons slide into the towncar and it pulls into traffic, merging and disappearing as though it was never there. Jim shakes his head, shocked and amazed by the story he’s just heard, horrified yet again by the shards of Oswald’s life that fit together so jaggedly. 

“I’ll keep you safe, Oswald,” he says, pushing the key into his front door. “I’ll keep you safe from all of them. For as long as it takes.”


	9. Eight: Of Many Things, Fools and Kings

_Life_ , Oswald muses, months later, _turned out to be too good to be true._

He adores his lover, everything about him, honestly and truly;

He adores his job and feels confident in the kitchen;

He adores the police department for giving Jim a clean slate and handing him his badge;

He even adores Harvey, who’s turned into a regular guest at their (their!) apartment, because now he not only has a lover, but has a friend as well.

Part of Oswald keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it hasn’t. He’s so happy he’s about to burst.

“Hey, you okay over there?” 

Oswald blinks at Eric, one of the other members of Maroni’s kitchen staff. “Yes?”

“You’re whistling,” the man teases. “Getting lucky later, Pots?”

And oh. He even kind of adores the stupid nickname the guys in the kitchen gave him. One of the line crew has the last name of Pancheko, and they’ve affectionately been calling the pair, ‘Pots and Pans’. 

“You’re hilarious,” Oswald says, and flicks a piece of the dough in his hands at Eric’s head. 

“I don’t know, that’s not a denial,” Eric continues. “Maybe the boyfriend’s gonna take you out, treat you somewhere for the six-month anniversary?”

“I don’t know if Jim’s got anything planned,” Oswald says. “Besides, that’s my duty to worry about, not yours. Where are you on the mushroom filling for these?”

Eric mutters the words “slave driver” but passes over a bowl of cleaned and chopped organic mushrooms. Oswald carefully adds them into a bowl of bleu cheese, garlic, heavy cream, salt and pepper, and then stirs it together. As soon as the filling thickens into a cheese-ball consistency, he starts spooning a dollop into each of the pastry rounds in front of him, folding over the edges and crimping them with a fork. “Thanks. These are going to be perfect tonight with the bacon-wrapped beef tenderloins and prune gravy.”

“The customers are already slavering for it,” Eric says, cheerfully. “I’m glad the boss started letting you do nightly specials. They sometimes sell better than the rest of the menu items.”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll never let me live it down,” another voice says, from behind them.

Oswald doesn’t knock over the bowl of filling in his glee to turn around, but it’s a close thing. “Sal!”

Maroni holds up a hand, stopping any discussion before it starts. “Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” the mobster says, as he heads towards the walk-in refrigerator. “I’m only here for my plate.”

The plate had been Oswald’s idea. He’d noticed the mobster eating rich, heavy leftovers from dinners every night. In order to offer the man alternatives, he’d started making the man special plates every day. The Mafioso, already half in love with Oswald’s cooking, had taken to Oswald like a pseudo-parent, and the two were frequently found talking together. “Hey, kiddo,” the man says. “What’re we talking about?”

“Whether or not Jim’s taking Pots anywhere nice for their six-month anniversary next weekend,” Eric blabs, despite Oswald’s frantic waving for him to shut up. “Whaddya think, boss? Should the cop pony up and take him somewhere nice?”

“Why don’t you two just have your anniversary here?” Maroni asks, causing Oswald to groan. “What? Why not?”

“Other than the fact that we’re going to be under the microscope from the kitchen staff and owner the entire night? Gosh, I don’t see how the romance could be killed!”

“Don’t get smart with me, brat,” Maroni says, but he’s smiling. He sits down at the table Oswald’s working on and lifts the lid of the plate. “Though I maybe can see your point. Hey, what am I eating here?”

“Today’s a cold plate: cold poached salmon with a cucumber-dill cream drizzle, a tomato-avocado salad, and pea crisps.”

“Pea crisps?”

“I was experimenting with the dehydrator,” Oswald says. “I threw a bunch on the house salads last week and everybody liked them. Oh!” he says, and walks over to a bread box. “And I saved you three slices of the rye Eric made yesterday. That should really compliment the salmon, and the bread’s amazing.”

“Aww, Pots. Thanks,” the other chef says, giving Oswald a thumbs-up. “We were thinking of doing an ethnic meal, boss, once a week. Salmon and rye for all the city’s Jews.”

“Look, racist, you don’t say Jews, it’s the Jewish community…”

Maroni holds up a hand to stave off Oswald’s rant. “We’re in safe company, Oswald. I think we can let Eric have this one.”

Oswald grumbles but lets it go. Meanwhile, he watches Sal’s face as he tries the items on the plate, noting where the Italian’s happy or not. “You’re not into the pea crisps?”

“Not so much, but it was a good try. I bet zucchini would be better.”

Oswald perks, intrigued. “Pitty pan squash,” he says, nodding. “I’ll branch out.”

“The salmon’s perfectly cooked.”

“What about the cream?”

“Not enough of it.”

“Yes, I know, this is how it should be served, not the gallons of stuff to drown it. It’s an additive, not the meal.”

“Kiddo…”

“Nope, not listening.”

Maroni laughs. “You’re a menace.”

“You mean, ‘thank you, Oswald, for helping me lose ten pounds so far, and making my family happier’, don’t you?”

“That must be it,” the mobster replies. “Though when I lost control of my own restaurant, I’m not sure.”

Oswald blushes and grins. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. But back to this anniversary. It’s a pretty big one, isn’t it. Six months with the two of you living in each other’s pockets, that’s a big deal.”

“I guess,” Oswald says, focusing on his pastries again to hide his embarrassment. “I don’t know what to do for him. I want to get him a gift or something but I have no idea what.”

“Does he have hobbies?” At Oswald’s look, Eric adds, “Err. Hobbies you want to tell us about? That don’t involve whips or leather or whatever it is that has you bruised sometimes?”

Oswald sticks out his tongue at the other man. “He reads. But he always buys his own books. He likes music but uses Pandora. And… not a complaint… but we only actually see each other like two nights a week. The rest of the time, he’s working days and I’m working nights.”

“Why don’t you take a weekend off and go somewhere, then?” Maroni suggests. “I don’t think you’ve asked for a day off since you arrived at my door. Take a weekend somewhere with your policeman. Go to the shore in Jersey. I would gladly approve of you taking a Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off.”

“You would?”

“Of course. You’ve brought my business profits up more than twenty percent in the last four months alone. Let me do give you both a nice weekend, eh? My treat.”

Oswald gapes at the man. “But… Sal, that’s too much, I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift!”

“It would be my great desire to do this for you, _bambino_ ,” Marino says, decisively. “Your policeman’s a good man, and you know I’m fond of you. I insist.”

“Then I’ll say thank you. Oh! I have to call Jim, we need to talk about when he can get a Monday off and… oh, Sal, thank you!” Oswald exclaims, and hugs the seated man enthusiastically. “I’ll be right back, I have to make a call!”

As Oswald scrambles out of the kitchen, he hears Maroni say to Eric, “He just got flour all over me, didn’t he.”

Oops.

Oswald pretends he doesn’t hear, heads out the back door of the restaurant and dials Jim from his newly-acquired cell phone. It rings twice, and then Jim picks up with a, “Hey, sweetheart.”

“We’re going on vacation!”

“What? Who?”

“You and me! It’s an anniversary gift!”

“Babe,” Jim says, and Oswald hears the laughter in his voice. “Slow down and start over. What, now?”

“Eric was teasing me about our six month anniversary, and Sal overheard,” Oswald explains. “And Sal said that since I’ve brought in so much new business with my cooking, he wants to treat us to a long weekend on the Jersey shoreline!”

“He does?”

“Saturday, Sunday, Monday. I’d go back to the restaurant on Tuesday night. Jim, do you think you could get a Monday and Tuesday off? Would Captain Essen allow it?”

“She might charge you a cheesecake for it,” Jim says, laughing. “She hasn’t forgotten you bringing in the last one.”

Oswald baked when the police department gave Jim back his badge. A lot. For weeks. “Tell her she can name her own flavor if she’ll give you the time off.”

“I’ll let you know what I find out. Hey, are you at the restaurant already? It’s only noon!”

“I know, but I wanted to do some new raviolis for the dinner rush,” Oswald explains, but there’s really no explanation needed because Jim’s already laughing. “Don’t you dare say the word obsessive.”

“Why would I say such a thing?” Jim asks, too innocently, and Oswald giggles into the receiver. “I love it when you laugh, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, a new voice in Jim’s background shouts, “I’m tryin’ to eat here!”

Oswald bursts into a fresh round of giggles. “You and Harvey are eating from that atrocious street vendor again, aren’t you.”

“Err…”

“Jim,” Oswald sighs. “What’m I gonna do with you?”

“A better question is, ‘what am I going to do with you’,” Jim growls back, and this time Oswald’s sighing for a completely different reason. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” Oswald says, glowing. “Let me know when you find out about the days off, okay?”

“I will. Be good at work tonight.”

“I’m always good!”

Jim hangs up first, because Oswald’s physically incapable of hanging up on the other man. He heads back inside towards the kitchen. “Jim’s going to find out whether or not he can take the time off,” he tells a grinning Eric. Sal’s vanished for the time being, the only sign of him the crumbs on the plate. “I’m so excited. I really hope he gets approved for the two days, it would be so nice to get away for a while. Wish it was warmer in Jersey, though.”

“Bring your sweaters,” Eric says. “And at night, huddle with the snuggle-bear for warmth.”

“You’re awful,” Oswald says, but he blushes, and Eric crows in delight. “Snuggle-bear. God.”

“What is it then? Do you actually call him ‘detective’ in bed?”

“Only when he brings out the handcuffs,” Oswald returns, sweetly, watching in malicious glee as Eric wrinkles his nose. “I love it when he has me over his lap like that…”

“Whoa, TMI!” Eric shouts, and this time it’s Oswald’s turn to crow. “You’re a little shit, Pots.”

“So I’ve learned,” Oswald says, happily. 

They’re finishing the raviolis together, sniping back and forth, teasing each other, when the bell over the front door chimes. 

“I’ll get it. You finish these up,” Oswald says.

He goes into the main room, remembering to brush his hands on his apron, and finds a man in a three-piece suit standing in the restaurant with his back to the kitchen. “We’re not open yet,” Oswald says, politely. “May I help you?”

When the man turns, Oswald gasps, sinks to his knees instinctively. “D… Don Falcone! I… please, Sir…” 

“Easy, penguin,” Falcone says. “I’m looking for your employer. Is he here?”

Oswald doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. “You just missed him, Sir.”

“He was supposed to meet me here at one thirty.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, I really don’t know anything about Mr. Maroni’s schedule.”

“Of course you don’t,” Falcone says. “Well, I’m a few minutes early, in any case. Why don’t you bring me a Lambrusco and something to eat, and I’ll wait?”

Oswald realizes this is not a request, and he politely responds with, “Yes, Sir.”

He gets up and dashes into the kitchen, half-hyperventilating when he arrives. “What’s the matter?” Eric asks. 

“Call Sal. Tell him Don Falcone’s out front. Don’t let anyone know you’re here,” Oswald demands. “Go out the back door, I mean it, Eric.”

Eric goes white. “What’re you going to do?”

“He wants wine and lunch. I’m going to make him wine and lunch. Get out, Eric. I’m serious, I won’t stand for you being here.”

“I’ve worked here longer than you have!”

“But no one else knows you’re here,” Oswald hisses. “So get your ass out of here, call Sal, and I’ll stall Don Falcone. Please, Eric, just do it!”

“God, we’re both gonna die,” Eric says, but tears off his apron and raggedly pulls on his street clothes. “Good luck, Pots.”

“Thanks.”

Oswald watches the other man duck out the back and scampers back into the kitchen, assembling an antipasti plate with veggies, cheeses and meats. He then heads toward the cellar, finds a decent bottle of Lambrusco, and returns to the dining room. “Your meal and wine, Sir,” he says, pouring Falcone a sip of wine for him to test. “May I get you anything else, Sir?”

Falcone swirls the wine in the glass, sniffs it, then takes a taste. “This is good wine.” 

“I’m glad you like it, Sir. It took me several moments to locate it in the wine cellar. I’m not used to going down there, I don’t drink.”

“No?”

Oswald stands away from the table, noticing for the first time the three men that have come in from the street. “No, Sir. Would… would your guests like anything?”

“They’ll be fine,” Falcone says. “Sit down, penguin.”

“Me?” Oswald squeaks. “I mean, yes! Yes, Sir.”

Oswald drops into one of the unoccupied chairs at the table. He fidgets while Falcone easily starts into the platter in front of him. “Do you do all the cooking here?”

“No, Sir. There are a few of us. But I made several of the items you’re eating. The marinated mushrooms are a favorite of mine.”

Falcone stabs a mushroom with his fork, the tines slamming into the fungi with lethal precision. “They’re delicious.”

Oswald swallows hard, feels himself trembling. “Thank you, Sir,” he says. 

“You look uncomfortable,” Falcone says, casually. “May I ask why?”

Oswald’s not yet so hysterical as to laugh, but he’s close. “I… I’m sorry, Sir. You, ah. Your presence wasn’t expected, so I’m not quite sure what I’m doing.”

“Be at ease, boy. Fish Mooney had no complaints about your service; from what I know, you’re not involved in Don Maroni’s other businesses; I have no reason to sit with you here today as anything more than chef and customer. All right?”

Oswald’s shaking doesn’t stop. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” Falcone says, and politely doesn’t call Oswald out on his trembling. “That’s very good. Why don’t you tell me the secret to the mushrooms, hmm? I’ve got quite a passion for good food, you know.”

This is a safe topic Oswald can latch on to. He goes into a discussion of the mushrooms, and then they move on to prosciutto and different ways to make risotto. Only when he hears Sal’s voice say his name does Oswald take a real breath. “Oswald,” Sal says again, and Oswald gets out of his chair. “Thank you for keeping Don Falcone company for me.”

“It was my pleasure, Sir,” Oswald says, and dips his head to Sal respectfully. He’d die if he caused his friend any dishonor. “I didn’t know about his visit or I’d have made something finer for you both.”

“I didn’t know about our visit either,” Sal says, something cold in his eyes not aimed at Oswald. “But we’re here now, and can talk. Oswald, do me a favor, get a second bottle from the cellar for me, won’t you? And then lock up on your way out the back. I’ll see you at six, the others can handle prep since you finished the raviolis earlier.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Oswald flies from the room, goes to the cellar, and brings the two men back a second bottle of wine. He then ducks out the back door as quickly as possible. Only when he’s a block away does he realize that in his haste, he’s still in his chef’s apparel and not his street clothes. Which means no wallet, no cell phone, no keys. “Fucking brilliant, Oswald,” he curses himself.

Resigned, he starts walking to the police station, and sends up a little prayer that Jim’s at his desk.


	10. Nine: This He Said To Me

“Jim? Did you order delivery?” Harvey asks.

Jim looks up, sees an exhausted-looking Oswald standing in front of him. “Hey,” he says, getting up to give his boyfriend his seat. “You look like hell, what happened?”

“Eric and I were making raviolis when Don Falcone showed up at the restaurant,” Oswald says, flopping into the chair and resting his head on Jim’s desk. “I managed to get Eric out the back door, but I ended up having to entertain Falcone for like half an hour before Sal showed up.”

“What did he want?”

“It was so weird, Jim. He said he’d had a one thirty appointment with Sal, but when Sal got back to the restaurant, he had no idea what Falcone was talking about. He made me run and get them more wine, and then told me to come back at six. I was in such a hurry to go that I didn’t change, and don’t have my phone or keys or anything. And I wasn’t going back into the restaurant for them.”

“That’s okay, I’ll give you my keys if you want them, or Harvey and I can drive you home,” Jim says, ignoring Harvey’s protest. “You don’t have to be back until six?”

“Because I came in and finished my prep early. God, that was nerve-wracking. I had to talk to Falcone. I thought he was there to kill me, Jim, I was so damn scared.”

“Why would he kill you now, baby? That doesn’t make sense. You’ve been working for Maroni too long to be a threat to him anymore.”

“I know! But he’s terrifying. He walks in, calls me ‘penguin’, and I’m immediately nothing more than a cowering fifteen year old again. I hated that.”

“But he didn’t say anything else to you?” Jim probes gently. “Not that you’re on his radar or anything, right?”

“No. I’m just glad to be away from him.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim soothes. “How about Harvey and I drive you home, huh? And I can give you some good news: for the price of one cheesecake, you can have me for two days of vacation. Cap’s orders.”

Oswald smiles and Jim immediately feels better for taking good care of him. He’s glad Falcone didn’t say anything to Oswald; Jim’s not sure how his younger lover would’ve taken it. Especially with how close Oswald had grown with Maroni. “Up you go,” he says, giving Oswald a hand up. “Harvey…”

“I know, I know. I’m a damn cab service.”

Oswald grins at Harvey’s grouchiness. “You can stop by the restaurant on your way home tonight, Harvey, and I’ll put a little something together for you as payment.” 

“You got yourself a deal, kid.”

Jim glances at the clock; almost three. “When we get home, you can take a quick nap. That should make you feel better.”

“And a shower?”

“And a shower.”

“With company?”

“Jesus, are you two ever going to leave the honeymoon phase?” Harvey complains, shooing them out the front door and towards his car. “Let me know, I’d love to be able to be around you without vomiting in my mouth.”

Jim considers making a joke about gags, but he’d rather attend to Oswald. He sits in the back seat with his boyfriend and cuddles him close, seatbelts be damned. Harvey drives them home and Jim says, “I’ll be back soon.”

“Forget it,” Harvey says. “I’ll tell the captain something came up, if she asks where you are later.”

“Thanks, Harvey.”

Jim helps Oswald up the stairs, into the apartment, and into the shower. Oswald doesn’t even talk as he undresses, just leans into Jim’s body. “Shower with me?” he mumbles, when Jim steps back.

“I shouldn’t. I should get ready to go back to work.”

“Harvey said he’d cover you.”

It’s not a hard push to get Jim to agree. “All right. Stay here.”

Jim hurries into their bedroom, secures his gun and gets his clothes off. When he gets back into the bathroom, Oswald’s already in the shower, standing underneath the spray. Jim pushes open the curtain and steps in behind him, wrapping his arms around the smaller man. “You okay?”

“No. Rattled.”

“It’s okay to be afraid, you know.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve been afraid of everything all my life, I shouldn’t be afraid of a man. He’s just a man, but there’s something about him that shakes me to my bones.”

“Maybe because he reminds you of Fish?”

Fish Mooney had been killed two months before; Jim suspected Falcone, but wasn’t going to turn the investigation that way. Good riddance, in his opinion. 

“Maybe.”

Jim stokes the soap up and down Oswald’s chest, washing him. “There are people and things that are always going to scare you. Hell, you know, there are things that scare me too.”

“More than spiders?”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you.”

Oswald giggles, turns in Jim’s arms so they’re pressed chest-to-chest. “That was pretty funny, you must admit.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” Jim complains, but without heat. “The damn things have eight freaking, wiggling legs. It’s not normal. And stop trying to change the subject. I’m serious. I don’t judge you for being frightened.”

“I judge me, though.”

“Then stop it. Remember when we started dating? The idea was to get you independent, not infallible.”

“Dating?”

“Fucking?” Jim breathes into Oswald’s ear. “Making love? Building a partnership? Whatever you call it, Oswald, you’ve already turned your life around. Look at you, you’re amazing.”

Oswald stretches onto his toes for a kiss, and Jim obliges. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nah,” Jim says. “I’m honest. You’re amazing, and I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

They stay pressed together until the water cools. “You want to sleep?” Jim asks.

“Yeah. For a little while. Wanna fool around when we get up?”

“Yes.” Jim doesn’t need thought to answer that question. “I do. I always do.”

Oswald giggles. “Okay.”

Jim turns off the water and they exit the tub. He uses a towel to rub Oswald down, gives himself a perfunctory drying, and then picks the smaller man up bridal-style and carries him into the bedroom. “James!” Oswald exclaims. “Put me down, I’m not a princess!”

“You are to me,” Jim replies. “Little prince.” 

Oswald blushes. “You’re ridiculous. Stop that,” he says, swatting at Jim. “J-i-i-m.”

Jim doesn’t set Oswald down until they’re in bed together. “Come on, lovebug,” Jim says, just to watch Oswald roll his eyes at the pet name. “Let’s snooze.”

Jim curls around Oswald’s frame, loving how the other man fits against him, and sets an alarm on his phone for five. That gives them time for a quickie before Oswald has to get ready and back to the restaurant. Oswald crashes hard, snoring as soon as his head hits the pillow. Jim watches him sleep, touches Oswald as he pleases while the other man slumbers. It’s cheating, but he wants Oswald to wake up horny.

He cups the smaller man’s balls in his hand, rolling them, and Oswald shifts back into Jim’s grasp. Jim grins. Even asleep, Oswald can’t help but react to Jim’s touch. He rolls the soft globes in his palm, stroking the base of Oswald’s cock, sliding a leg carefully between Oswald’s legs to be able to ghost fingertips over his hole.

Oswald sleeps like the dead.

A quick kiss to Oswald’s back, and Jim’s sliding lower, lower on the mattress. Oswald unconsciously rolls onto his stomach, exposing the opening to his body, and Jim can’t help it. He licks across the opening to Oswald’s body, pushing his tongue inside the clean pucker. Oswald hums, moves his hips to rock against the bed. “Thought we were napping,” he complains, but spreads his legs to let Jim have better access. “Jim…”

“I’m sorry baby, you looked so damn pretty laying there.”

“Fix it,” Oswald pouts, and Jim can’t help but give him a soft spank. “Ooo. I like that.”

Jim spanks him again and licks his hole, loving the way Oswald makes noises for him. “Want me there?” Jim asks, flicking Oswald’s ass. “Want me buried there, sunken into you?”

“Hell yes,” Oswald replies. “Make me take it, Jim.”

Jim reaches over into the nightstand, then pushes up on his forearms, drapes himself over Oswald’s back. He slips two lubed fingers into Oswald’s hole, enjoying the way the muscle contracts around his fingertips. “You’re perfect, sweetheart,” he says, mouthing at Oswald’s neck. “Look at me.”

Oswald, perfect Oswald, tilts his head to look Jim in the eye. “I love you,” Jim says. “Are you mine?”

“Always.”

Jim removes his fingers and slides in, warm and welcome. Oswald’s gorgeous, hardly ever needs prep because Jim’s always in him, and Jim sighs. “God, so tight. How do you stay so tight, sweetheart, huh?”

“I was made just for you, didn’t you know?”

It’s the cheesiest line, but it hits Jim in the chest like a hammer. “You were,” he agrees, rocking his hips into Oswald’s. “Made for me in all ways, huh. Stole my heart when I wasn’t looking.”

Their coupling doesn’t last long, but it’s tender, and it gives Jim a sense of comfort that few other things do. He loves the way their sex life suits their moods; handcuffs one night, gentleness another, but always what works for both of them. Over the last months, Jim’s learned to read Oswald by the twitches in his mouth, the glimmer in his eyes, the wrinkles on his nose when he’s frustrated. And now, he uses those tells to give them both as much pleasure as he can.

It’s amazing.

He brings Oswald to the edge and over, then spills inside the smaller man. They lay together in a sticky heap, still kissing. “What time is it?”

Jim grabs for his phone. “Almost five.”

“I need another shower.”

“Hmm. Do you feel better, though?”

“Some. Wish people like Don Falcone didn’t exist.”

“If Don Falcone didn’t exist, Sal wouldn’t exist, either,” Jim says. “You take the bad with the good, sweetheart. It’s not a perfect system.”

“Still wish it was different.”

“Come on,” Jim says. “We’ll shower and I’ll take the train with you to the restaurant, huh? We can sit together and make the other passengers envious of our love.”

Oswald snorts and, as Jim had hoped, smiles again. “Creeper,” the younger man accuses, but follows Jim into the shower.

They keep their hands to themselves this time; Oswald won’t be late on Jim’s account. Thankfully, Oswald has a clean smock and apron hanging in the closet that he puts into his bag so he can dress in his street clothes. He and Jim put themselves together and head toward the subway.

It’s not a long ride to Maroni’s, but it’s long enough that Oswald tucks into Jim’s side for the trip. Jim’s pretty sure that everyone on the train can see how crazy he is about the other man, but he doesn’t care. He loves Oswald like mad. Maybe everyone else should be so lucky.

When they get off the subway, Oswald grabs for Jim’s hand and pulls him up the stairs. Only when they make it to street level do they realize something’s not right.

Jim’s got his gun out before he can blink; the smell’s given away the problem; gasoline and char and rot. “Oswald, get behind me,” he orders.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I see flashing lights though.”

“Is it Maroni’s?”

Jim’s got a terrible feeling, and it only gets worse when they approach the restaurant. There are dozens of firemen and cops in the area, and Jim’s guiding Oswald through the crowd until he can reach one of the officials. “What’s going on?” Jim asks, flashing his badge.

“Arson, double homicide,” a fireman answers. “Who’re you?”

“Detective Jim Gordon, GCPD. This is my partner Oswald Cobblepot.”

“Sorry to meet you under these conditions,” the guy replies. “Theo Landers, GCFD. It looks like a hit crew came through here; we’ve got two dead and the restaurant’s almost fully burned down. One body in the alleyway, one inside. Haven’t ID’d either of them yet.”

“Witnesses?” Oswald asks, from behind Jim, and Jim glares at him. 

“None yet,” the fireman replies, unaware of the silent argument between them. “We’re working on it.”

“Thanks,” Jim says.

He turns to Oswald. “Did Eric go home?”

“Yes. But it could be anyone. God, Jim, that should’ve been me in there with Sal. Sal told me to come in later, and that should’ve been me otherwise.”

Jim wraps the smaller man in his embrace, unsure how to voice his next thought. Finally, he asks, “Do you think one of the bodies is Sal’s?”

“It’s possible,” Oswald says. “I mean, he looked so mad today when Don…Falcone. Oh my God, Jim, do you think Don Falcone had Sal murdered?”

“I don’t know, baby. Did you see or hear anything?”

“No, but… but I saw them. Together. What if Don Falcone thought I’d be back earlier and had one of the other chefs killed instead of me? What if he thinks I’m a threat?”

“Oswald!”

Oswald shrinks into himself. “I can’t do this, Jim.”

“Do what?”

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t think my life’s going well and then deal with burned restaurants. I don’t want to have friends that die on me because they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time or because they’re in the wrong line of work. I don’t want to be afraid.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Safety. You and me, somewhere.”

“We would have to leave Gotham.”

“I know.”

Oswald doesn’t say it, but Jim can see the decision’s already made. “My home’s with you, Oswald. We can live anywhere. Someplace warm, maybe.”

Oswald’s head snaps up and he gives Jim a wide-eyed look. “You remember?”

“Of course I do, baby. I’ve never been to California but I bet it’s nice out there. We should find out for ourselves. What do you say?”


	11. Ten: The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn is Just To Love and Be Loved In Return

_Three Years Later_

The boardwalk of Solana Beach overflows, every bar and restaurant packed to the gills with tourists for the season. Beach bunnies and body builders lounge in the sand, spillover from San Diego’s beaches ten minutes south.

The sun’s setting.

Oswald sits in a plastic chair outside the Umbrella Room, sipping a fruity cocktail and grinning. The bar manager he’s hired is brilliant and the rest of his staff’s serving up the delicious finger-foods he created. The bar’s been doing nothing more than raking in money the entire season, a little more upscale than the rest of the bars along the boardwalk, but still welcoming to the flip-flop and tee-shirt crowd.

The head of security drops into a chair next to Oswald, gives him the once over. “I’m still never going to get used to you wearing sandals and board shorts.”

Oswald giggles, reaches out a hand to the other man. “Will you love me anyway?”

Jim’s blue, blue eyes catch the last of the fading light. “Forever,” he says.


End file.
